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8FTBE- 
CXlVERSltt  Uf 


« 


Ale  in  the  Wild 


March  Morning. 


By  the  Author  of  u  Fairy  Gold  etc ,,  etc. 


Chicago: 

Universal  Publishing  Co, 
1888. 


WILSON 


f|3  : 

VU3l<x 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

“You  have  been  such  a  time  away,  Tredennick!” 

The  lady  spoke  with  a  little  aggrieved  smile,  and  in  tones 
of  reproach,  as  of  those  of  a  person  so  accustomed  to  regard 
and  consideration  that  the  mere  involuntary  absence  of  her 
votaries  is  resented  as  an  approach  to  neglect,  placing  as  she 
did  so  her  tiny  feet,  in  their  dainty  black  silk-stockings  and 
kid  shoes,  all  rosetted  and  gold-buckled,  nearer,  on  her  velvet- 
covered  fender-stool,  to  the  warmth  of  the  crimson-glowing 
fire. 

“  Hand  me  my  large  fan,  please — that  black-bugled  affair. 
Thank  you;”  and*  she  adjusted  the  black  glittering  fan  to 
shade  her  pale  smooth  cheek  from  the  ardent  glare*  and 
arranged  her  fine  cambric  lace-edged  handkerchief  over  her 
little,  plump,  white  jewelled  hand  to  protect  its  fairness  also. 

Some  vain  exacting  young  beauty  she  doubtless  appears, 
this  fair  dame.  Hasty  judgments  are  always  unwise — nearly 
always  incorrect.  * 

Madam  Vivian  had  been  a  beauty  without  doubt,  and  pos¬ 
sessed  a  beauty  of  her  own  yet — had  been  just  as  vain*and 
exacting  as  most  young,  courted,  flattered  beauties  are— no 
more,  no  less — and  was  as  gracefully  imperious,  as  self-suffi¬ 
cient,  self-willed,  and  self-possessed,  as  handsome,  haughty, 
well-bred,  well-born,  and  wealthy  elderly  ladies  generally  are. 

Despite  her  dark  brilliant  eyes,  her  smooth  fair  cheek,  her 
scarcely  lined  brow,  her  well-cut  lips  and  white  even  teeth — 
all  her  own  beauty,  her  own  natural  gift  without  a  touch  of 
art  to  aid  it — Madam  Vivian  of  Roseworthy  was  fifty-six 
years  of  age,  and  wore  on  her  hair,  which  was  beautiful,  lus¬ 
trous,  wavy,  and  silver-gray,  a  fragile  kind  of  diadem  of 
black  lace,  all  besprinkled  with  glittering  tremulous  stars  and 

701496 


6 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 


crescents  of  jet,  to  denote  her  state  of  widowed  mourning, 
although  it  dated  back  some  seven  years  before. 

The  person  addressed  as  Tredennick,  therefore,  was  not 
that  subservient,  humble-minded,  and  somewhat  timid  indi¬ 
vidual  who  had  the  unparalleled  good  fortune  to  be  the  hus¬ 
band  of  a  flattered,  imperious  beauty;  nor  was  he  her  son, 
although  his  years  numbered  some  twenty-four  less  than  hers. 

“My  dear  aunt,”  he  said,  quietly,  “the  East  Indiaman 
Chittoor  is  rather  different  in  character  from  your  little  Blue - 
bell ,  in  the  days  when  you  went  yachting,  to  go  here  and  there 
by  the  favour  of  wind  and  tide.” 

“  Dear  me,  Tredennick,  I  should  think  I  know  that!  ”  said 
Madam  Vivian,  rather  petulantly.  “But  you  have  been 
away  a  very  long  time,  I  repeat — it  seems  to  me  that  each  of 
your  voyages  is  longer  than  the  last.  Of  course  I  know  there 
are  no  attractions  in  England  to  make  you  hasten  home.” 

The  black  glittering  fan  in  Madam  Vivian’s  hand,  and  the 
black  begemmed  lace  on  her  silvery  hair,  stirred  and  fluttered 
.with  an  air  of  misery  and  reproach. 

The  keen,  expressive  blue-gray  eyes  of  Stephen  Tredennick, 
Captain  of  the  East  Indiaman  Cliittoor ,  sparkled  with  a  pass¬ 
ing  gleam  of  amusement;  and  then  he  replied,  as  quietly  as 
before — 

“No  attractions  outside  the  home  my  dear  aunt  is  kind 
enough  to  welcome  a  poor  sailor  to.” 

The  compliment  and  tribute,  warmly  as  they  were  expressed, 
nevertheless  failed  in  quite  pacifying  Madam  Vivian.  She 
fluttered  her  fan  more  impatiently  for  a  few  moments,  glanc¬ 
ing  athwart  it  with  her  dark  eyes  flashing  in  a  manner  which 
showed  what  deadly  service  the  dainty  weapon  might  have 
done  in  the  days  of  her  early  ball-room  campaigns. 

“  It  is  your  own  fault  entirely,  Stephen,”  she  said,  sharply 
ancl  suddenly;  “you  might  have  other  attractions,  and  other 
homes  to  welcome  you,  if  you  cared.” 

“Yes,  but  I  do  not  care,  aunt,”  he  replied  more  quietly,  a 
certain  stern  look  coming  into  his  kind  blue  eyes;  “we  have 
said  all  we  can  say  on  that  subject,  and  you  know  my  mind.” 

“Yes;  you  will  never  marry  unless  you  meet  a  girl  whom 
you  can  love,”  said  Madam  Vivian,  in  rather  a  shrill  tone,  as 
of  one  labouring  under  much  suppressed  annoyance.  “You 
only  say  that  for  want  of  a  better  answer  to  make  me,  Stephen. 
It  cannot  be  possible  that  an  educated  man  of  thirty-two  has 
no  other  ideas  on  the  subject  of  an  eligible  wife  than  the 
mere  Jack-Tar  notion  of  ‘a  girl  to  love!  ’  ” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


7 


“  I  regret  to  say — such  is  the  density  of  my  ignorance  and 
the  narrow-mindedness  of  my  obstinate  determination,”  re¬ 
turned  Captain  Tredennick,  smiling  still,  but  looking  a  little 
irritated — “the  mere  Jack-Tar  notion  is  the  very  one  for  me.” 

“  Well,”  said  Madam,  changing  her  tactics,  and  beginning 
to  reason  anew,  with  all  the  pertinacity  of  a  self-willed  woman, 
“why  can  not  you  find  the  girl  to  love?  What  is  to  hinder 
you?  ” 

“Where  am  I  to  find  her?  I  don’t  admire  the  black-eyed 
Susans  or  lovely  Nans  of  seaport  towns;  and  I  assure  you, 
dear  aunt,  my  acquaintance  with  London  belles  is  excessively 
limited.” 

“  Excessively  limited — I  should  think  so!”  retorted  Madam, 
petulantly,  as  she  saw  in  her  nephew’s  face  the  glimmer  of 
amusement  at  her  anxiety.  “No  wonder  it  should  be  limited, 
when  you  spend  your  time  in  the  smoky,  groggy  society  of  a 
set  of  sailors,  and  go  poking  about  their  4  snug  cribs,’ 
as  they  call  their  little  out-of-the-way  villas  and  cottages  that 
are  kept  like  ship-cabins,  and  with  not  even  a  female  house¬ 
keeper  sometimes!” 

“  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  aunt,”  said  he,  laughing;  44  Mar- 
tyn  has  a  remarkably  pretty  housekeeper,  whom  he  adores, 
and  a  houseful  of  pretty  maidservants.” 

44  Captain  Martyn  had  sense  enough  to  marry,  and  marry 
well  too,”  said  Madam,  shortly. 

44  And  Stephen  Tredennick  has  not  sense  enough  to  marry 
and,  if  he  ever  does,  is  likely  to  marry  ill,”  retorted  the  Cap¬ 
tain  of  the  Chittoor ,  rising  and  walking  away  to  the  window. 

44 1  do  not  at  all  doubt  it,”  said  Madam,  sharply. 

44  That  nor’-wester  is  blowing  pretty  stiff,”  Captain  Tre¬ 
dennick  remarked  presently,  glad  to  change  the  subject  of 
conversation,  as  he  drew  back  the  thick  green  damask  cur¬ 
tains,  and  looked  out  into  the  misty  stormy  night.  44  Dirty 
weather  in  the  Channel  to-night,  I  fear,”  he  went  on,  talking 
to  himself,  for  Madam  Vivian  sat  with  her  head  turned 
away,  her  little  slippered  foot  pettishly  beating  the  footstool; 
44  there  will  be  a  gale  before  midnight.  I  think  I  will  go  out 
and  have  a  look— smoke  my  pipe  on  the  cliffs — that  is,  if  it 
woji’t  be  put  out,”  and  he  laughed  as  he  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

44  At  this  hour,  Stephen! — in  the  darkness  and  storm!” 
Madam  Vivian  exclaimed,  her  affection  and  anxiety  quite 
overcoming  her  ill-humour.  44  My  dear  boy,  you  must  not 
think  of  it!  Are  there  not  your  own  room  and  the  study — 


8 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


both  with  good  fires,  and  warm  and  cosy?  Stephen  dear, 
pray  do  not!” 

“Very  well  then,  aunt,  to  please  you,”  he  said,  going 
towards  the  door  nevertheless;  “but  I  shall  just  have  a  look 
at  the  night.” 

“Not  on  the  cliffs — pray,  Stephen,  not  on  the  cliffs!” 
Madam  Vivian  reiterated.  “Stephen,  do  you  hear  me?” 

“I  hear  you,  dear  aunt,”  he  replied,  with  a  kind  of  grave 
patience;  “  are  you  afraid  that  a  capful  of  wind  would  take 
me  off  my  legs  and  blow  me  over  Tregarthen  Head  ?” 

“A  capful  of  wind  do  you  call  it?”  cried  Madam,  indig¬ 
nantly,  pointing  her  white  hand  to  the  wildly-swaying  boughs 
of  the  great  elms  outside,  as  their  dark  forms  were  visible 
against  the  lighter  background  of  stormy,  cloudy  sky, 
through  which  the  faint  moonlight  struggled  dimly.  “  I  have 
been  out  in  a  gale  of  wind  before  now,  and  I  know  one  as 
well  as  you  do,  Captain  Tredennick!  Come  and  sit  down  to 
chess  this  instant,  under  peril  of  my  displeasure — Llanyon 
will  send  us  up  some  tea  presently — and  forget  your  quarter¬ 
deck  and  dirty  weather  and  night  watches  for  once.” 

“  My  dear  aunt,  I  am  no  more  able  to  refuse  compli¬ 
ance  with  any  request  of  yours  than  my  late  uncle  was,”  said 
her  nephew;  and  there  was  a  glimmer  of  ridicule  in  the  sail¬ 
or’s  keen  pleasant  eyes  as  he  turned  obediently,  moved  the 
little  inlaid  table  in  front  of  Madam’s  easy  chair,  and  placed 
thereon  the  splendidly-carved  ivory  chessmen  which  he  him¬ 
self  had  brought  home  from  Canton  as  a  gift.  Common 
report  would  have  it,  indeed,  that  the  late  John  Vivian, 
Squire  of  Roseworthy,  parish  of  St.  Awen,  Cornwall,  had 
carried  the  trait  of  conjugal  amiability,  to  which  his  nephew 
alluded,  so  very  far  that  it  had  carried  him  at  length  into  the 
regions  of  conjugal  slavery — but  then  common  report  is 
always  slanderous. 

Chess  was  Madam  Vivian’s  favorite  game;  she  delighted 
as  much  as  she  excelled  in  its  intriguing,  its  deep-laid  policy, 
its  ambuscades,  and  well-won  victories;  and  it  was  her  boast 
to  say  that  she  never  met  her  match  on  the  held  of  the 
chequered  board,  except  in  a  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen. 

She  certainly  did  meet  her  match,  and  her  victor  very  often, 
in  a  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen;  but  then  she  could  grace¬ 
fully  yield  the  palm  to  those  of  her  own  kindred,  for  she  had 
been  a  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen  before  she  came  to  rule 
over  Squire  Vivian’s  handsome  house  and  well  filled  purse  in 
Roseworthy. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


9 


“I  had  intended  to  go  up  to  Tregarthen  this  evening,” 
Stephen  Tredennick  remarked  absently,  toying  with  a  cap¬ 
tured  pawn,  and  oblivious  of  an  awful  menace  to  his  bishop 
from  Madam’s  last  move.  “  It  is  too  late  now;  I  must  go  up 
to-morrow.  The  Truscotts  are  keeping  the  old  house 
together,  I  suppose,  aunt?” 

“  Yes,  keeping  it  together,”  Madam  replied  with  a  slight 
shrug;  “  it  is  a  perfect  ruin,  you  know.  Stephen,  do  you 
intend  that  pawn  to  remain?” 

“  I  am  sorry  for  it,”  said  Captain  Tredennick,  moving  the 
pawn  carelessly;  “I  should  not  like  the  old  home  to  fall  to 
ruins,  even  if  I  never  lived  in  it.” 

“  It  would  take  full  three  thousand  pounds  to  rebuild  and 
renovate,”  observed  Madam,  with  another'shrug;  “if  you  are 
never  going  to  live  there,  it  does  not  matter,  I  suppose.  If  I 
had  three  thousand  to  spare,  I  would  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
name  of  the  Tredennicks  of  Tregarthen,  but  I  have  not.  So 
I  suppose  it  must  go,  as  they  will  go;  you  are  the  last  of  the 
Tredennicks,  and  I  dare  say  another  half  century  will  blot 
even  the  memory  of  tl\em  off  the  face  of  the  earth.” 

“  I  dare  say,”  replied  Stephen  Tredennick,  gravely. 

“There  goes  your  bishop!  ”  cried  Madam,  sharply,  swoop¬ 
ing  down  on  the  neglected  piece.  “What  are  you  thinking 
of?  You  are  playing  very  badly  to-night!  ” 

“I  shall  not  spend  three  thousand  certainly,”  Stephen 
Tredennick  said,  taking  the  loss  of  the  bishop  very  philo¬ 
sophically,  “  but  I  certainly  must  spend  a  few  pounds  in 
making  it  weathertight.  I  shall  go  up  there  to-morrow.” 

“It  is  sad  to  see  it  in  the  state  it  is  in,”  returned  Madam, 
speaking  in  meaning  accents  still.  “I  should  like  before  I 
die  to  see  the  Tredennicks  of  Tregarthen  there  once  more; 
but  I  never  shall,  I  suppose.” 

The  unpleasant  subject  was  cropping  up  again.  Captain 
Tredennick  made  another  reckless  move,  and  turned  his  head 
towards  the  window. 

“  Ah,  the  gale  is  upon  us  sooner  than  I  thought,”  he  said, 
the  sough  of  the  trees  and  the  mournful  sighing  of  the  night 
wind  rising,  as  he  spoke,  into  a  sudden  shrieking  blast,  that 
roared  above  the  thundering  din  of  the  crashing  billows  out  by 
the  headland  crags,  and  swept  over  the  mansion  fiercely,  beat¬ 
ing  at  its  closed  doors  and  windows,  screaming  round  the 
grouped  chimneys,  the  angles  and  gables,  and  burying  itself 
with  long,  tremulous  wails  in  the  surging  hurricane  of  sound 
of  the  wild,  leafless  woodlands  behind. 


10 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  Check  to  your  queen!  ”  said  Madam. 

Captain  Tredennick  made  a  few  feeble  efforts  to  save  the 
game,  but  a  move  or  two  more  placed  it  entirely  in  Madam’s 
hands. 

“  I  do  not  call  that  a  game,  now — it  was  merely  surren¬ 
dered,”  said  she  pushing  her  chair  away  in  pique.  “  If  you 
did  not  want  to  play,  why  did  you  not  say  so?  Ring  for  tea, 
please,  Stephen.” 

“  I  really  do  not  feel  my  head  quite  clear  to-night,  aunt,” 
he  explained,  apologetically;  “  my  mind  kept  wandering  all 
the  time.  Hark!  It  is  a  bad  night  for  the  Channel,  and  no 
mistake!” 

Llanyon,  Madam  Vivian’s  staid,  grave  butler,  entered  at 
this  juncture  with  Madam’s  favourite  china — pale  buff  and 
gold — and  Madam’s  silver  service,  with  the  fragrant  green 
tea,  the  sparkling  sugar,  the  tiny  silver-stoppered  bottle  of 
lemon  essence,  with  which  she  always  flavoured  her  cup,  and 
the  little  richly-chased  ewer  of  scalded  cream.  Llanyon  had, 
beside  the  silver  biscuit-basket,  another  coloured  dish. 

“  Cook  sent  up  some  c  heavy-cake,’  Madam,”  he  said,  a 
little  apologetically.  “  She  says  it  is  very  nice,  if  you  and 
the 'Captain  would  like  to  try  it.  Miss  Winnie  is  very  fond 
of  it — only  she  has  not  come  to-night.” 

uOh,  I  see!”  said  Madam,  laughing  carelessly— “  it  was 
made  for  Miss  Winnie  then,  and  cook  kindly  condescends  to 
give  us  a  morsel.  I  am  sure  we  are  flattered!  No,  of‘course 
the  child  has  not  come  to-night — how  could  you  expect  it, 
Llanyon?  Come,  Stephen.  I  always  like  my  green  tea  after 
chess;  indeed,  during  a  prolonged  and  well-played  game  I 
like  it  to  sip  at  intervals  whilst  I  am  playing;  but  we  are  hardly 
in  need  of  it  to-night.” 

Madam  Vivian  was  one  of  those  people  who  do  not  easily 
forgive. 

“  Who  is  c  Miss  Winnie?  ’  ”  Captain  Tredennick  asked.  “  I 
never  heard  of  that  young  lady  before.” 

“  Oh,  a  little  girl  who  conies  to  read  or  play  to  me  in  the 
evening,”  said  Madam,  intent  on  the  exact  flavouring  of  her 
tea.  “  Won’t  you  try  the  lemon  essence,  Tredennick?  It’s 
a  vast  improvement.  She’s  a  nice  little  creature,  poor  child.” 

Tredennick’s  eyes  appeared  to  question,  whilst  he  spoke 
no  word — he  was,  in  truth,  at  that  moment  calculating  the 
time  of  the  tide,  'and  the  probable  position  of  some  home¬ 
ward-bound  vessels  of  which  he  knew. 

“  Not  a  very  comfortable  home,  poor  child,”  said  Madam, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


11 


in  reply  to  his  look;  “  a  step  mother,  and  a  parcel  of  disa¬ 
greeable  children,  you  know,  and  poor  Winnie  made  a  kind 
of  drudge  for  them.  I  would  have  taken  her  altogether  as  a 
little  companion,  but  her  step-mother  had  the  impertinence  to 
tell  me — to  tell  me,”  repeated  Madam,  setting  hack  her  well¬ 
shaped  head,  with  its  trembling  diadem  of  lace,  and  her  full 
white  throat — “  that  Winnie  could  not  be  spared  from  home! 
Her  father  came  to  apologise,  and  wished  me  to  take  Winnie, 
but  I,  of  course,  refused.” 

Stephen  Tredennick  did  not  quite  see  the  force  or  justice 
of  the  “  of  course,”  but  he  merely  asked — 

“  What  is  he?” 

“A  Coastguard  officer.  He  has  been  in  the  Royal  Navy, 
and  held  the  rank  of  lieutenant,”  replied  Madam  Vivian. 
“You  ideally  should  taste  this  ‘heavy-cake,’  Tredennick;  cook 
always  makes  it  deliciously.  Of  course,  only  that  she  is  a 
gentleman’s  daughter,  I  would  not  make  a  companion  of  poor 
little  Winnie,  though  she  is  such  a  clever  little  being — plays 
quite  prettily,  and  sings  a  little,  and  reads  beautifully — quite 
a  natural  gift,  poor  child!” 

Again  Tredennick  did  not  see,  under  all  the  circumstances, 
the  force  and  justice  of  the  “of  course,”  but  said  nothing; 
the  allusion  to  the  Coastguard  service  having  sent  his  mind 
off,  through  the  wild  darkness  of  the  bleak  March  night  on 
the  English  coast,  the  driving  rain  and  howling  blast,  to 
smugglers’  adventures,  skirmishes,  captures,  and  escapes,  in 
the  sultry  gloom  of  tropical  nights  beneath  the  silver  glory 
of  the  Southern  Cross,  and  to  the  pirate’s  darker  craft,  like 
a  fell  bird  of  prey  darting  amidst  the 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark  purple  spheres  of  sea. 

An  impatient  clink  of  the  china  and  silver  resulting  in  a  tiny 
chime  brought  him  back  with  a  start  to  the  reality  of  Madam 
Vivian’s  richly  furnished  drawing-room,  all  green,  in  different 
shades  and  depths  of  hue,  as  regarded  its  upholstery  and 
drapery  of  velvet  and  satin  damask,  all  aglow  with  the  light 
of  wax-candles  and  blazing  firelight,  all  glittering  with  black 
walnut-woods  and  heavy  dull-gold  frames  (Madam  Vivian 
liked  green  in  her  rooms — it  suited  her  complexion,  and  it 
did  not  tire  her  eyes,  she  said;  she  liked  wax-candles  and 
large  fires;  and  she  chose  black  walnut  in  preference  to  gayer 
and  less  chaste  carvings) — to  the  contemplation  of  Madam’s 
pale  handsome  face  with  a  faint  hue,  the  last  flush  of  the 
once  exquisite  roses  of  her  cheeks,  relieving  it  from  actual 


12  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOKNING. 

pallor  or  sallowness — to  the  contemplation  of  her  silvery 
waves  of  shining  hair,  her  rich  lustreless  trailing  black  silk, 
the  dainty  tea-table,  and  Madam’s  jewelled  fingers,  with 
sparks  of  rainbow  fire  on  them  as  they  moved  hither  and 
thither  amongst  the  tea-equipage;  and  then  the  wild  storm 
and  rain,  drenching  the  windows  outside,  claimed  him  again. 

“  Hark!  ”  said  Madam  suddenly,  dropping  the  sugar-tongs 
with  a  deafening  clash — “  it  never  can  be!  Did  you  not  hear 
a  knock  and  ring,  Tredennick?  ” 

“Certainly  I  did,”  he  replied,  in  some  surprise. 

“  It  can  never  be  that  child!  ”  said  Madam  irritably.  “It* 
could  not  be  possible!  How  slow  Llanyon  is!  ” 

To  alleviate  her  impatience,  Tredennick  had  risen  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  lock,  when  he  heard  the  hall-door  unbarred, 
and  then  shut  hastily  against  the  storm,  as  some  one  rushed 
in  with  an  ejaculation. 

“  It’s  Miss  Winnie,  Madam,”  said  the  old  butler,  as  Tre¬ 
dennick  opened  the  drawing-room  door;  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  small  muffled-up  figure,  apparently  dripping  with 
wet,  appeared  in  the  brightly  lit  portal. 

“Winifred!”  cried  Madam  Vivian,  sharply — Madam’s  voice 
was  very  clear,  and  rather  high-pitched,  and  could  be  very 
shrill  and  sharp  when  she  chose. 

“Yes,  Madam,”  came  in  rather  muffled-up  tones  from  the 
dripping  figure. 

“  What  on  earth  induced  you  to  come  out  on  such  a  night?” 
Madam  demanded,  'her  fair  smooth  forehead  lined  with  dis¬ 
pleasure.  “  In  torrents  of  rain,  darkness  and  storm,  and  at 
this  hour,  too!  Did  you  imagine  I  wanted  to  be  read  to  at 
nine  o’clock  in  the  evening?” 

“  It  was  much  earlier  when  I  left  home,  Madam,”  the  little 
wet  bundled-up  figure  said  humbly.  “  It  was  only  half-past 
seven  when  I  left  home,  and  the  storm  overtook  me — and  I 
had  to  go  errands  besides.” 

Madam  compressed  her  well-cut  pink  lips,  and  poured  out 
another  cup  of  tea  for  herself. 

“Well,  Winifred  ” — sugaring,  creaming,  and  flavouring  the 
beverage  very  delicately,  but  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her 
employment — “as  you  have  been  ridiculous  enough  to  quit 
your  own  home,  and  come  through  darkness  and  storm  until 
you  are  covered  with  mud  and  wet  from  head  to  foot,  for  the 
very  laudable  purpose  of  reading  to  me  at  an  hour  when 
I  shall  be  going  to  bed — as  you  would  scarcely  be  presentable 
for  the  next  two  hours — you  had  better  go  down  to  cook  and 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


13 


get  your  clothes  dried,  and  have  some  hot  tea  or  something. 
Such  an  idea!  I  am  sure,  Tredennick,  you  must  think  me  a 
considerate  woman  to  expect  a  young  girl  to  come  more  than 
two  miles  along  the  cliffs,  on  such  a  night  as  this,  to  read  to 
me!  Positively!  ”  Madam  was  very  angry,  and  spilled  some 
of  her  delicate  tea  over  her  cambric  handkerchief.  “  Shut  the 
door,  please,  Winifred,  and  go  down  to  cook,  as  I  told  you.” 

The  little  dark  wet  figure  listened  quietly  to  the  last  word 
of  the  reproof,  and  then  softly  shut  the  door  and  stole  away. 

“Did  you  ever  know  anything  so  preposterous?”  said 
Madam,  angrily,  to  Tredennick.  “The  idea  of  the  girl’s, 
attempting  such  a  thing,  and  that  abominable  step-mother  of 
hers  and  her  stupid  father  to  allow  her!  That  is  the  worst 
of  Winnie:  she  is  so  excessively  stupid — silly,  you  know — a 
childish  stupidity  without  an  idea  of  discretion  or  judgment. 

I  am  really  exceedingly  provoked  with  Winnie.  She  will 
run  over  here  in  all  weathers — glad  to  get  away  from  her 
wretched  home,  I  suppose;  but  then  I  shall  have  the  blame 
if  anything  happens  to  her.  Just  imagine,  if  that  child  were 
blown  over  the  cliffs,  or  Tregarthen  Head — she  lives  half  a 
mile  beyond  Tregarthen  —  what  a  state  I  should  be  in! 
Accused  of  her  untimely  end,  I  dare  say,  by  all  her  friends 
and  relations!  ” 

“  She  does  not  seem  to  have  many,  poor  little  lassie!” 
commented  Captain  Tredennick,  commiseratingly. 

“No,  indeed,”  said  Madam  Vivian,  self-complacently, 
ignoring  any  second  meaning  in  his  words;  “  she  is  always 
running  after  me — seems  almost  to  cling  to  me,  poor  child!” 

Madam  was  fond  of  her  faithful  little  protegeey  pitied  her 
poverty  and  friendlessness,  recognised  the  “poor  child’s” 
natural  gifts  and  social  attractions,  yet  she  sat  there  com¬ 
posedly  drinking  her  high-flavoured  costly  beverage,  and  lan¬ 
guidly  tasting  the  morsels  of  rich  cake  on  her  plate,  luxuri¬ 
ating  in  the  cosy  warmth  and  elegance  she  loved,  while  the 
“  poor  child  ”  had  been  peremptorily  banished,  cold,  wet,  and 
weary  as  she  was,  and  bidden  to  seek  what  rest  and  restora¬ 
tion  she  could  find  from  the  hands  of  servants.  Madam  was 
utterly  unconscious  of  any  unkindness.  Passing  through  the 
homage  of  her  flattered  girlhood  to  the  more  slavish  homage 
of  her  indulged  imperious  wifehood,  she  had  never  felt  what 
it  was  to  love  another  better  than  herself — never  felt  one 
touch  of  that 

Love  born  of  sorrow* 

Which  like  sorrow  is  true—* 


14 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


which  makes  the  true  heart  beat  so  tenderly  for  another’s 
heart  grief.  She  had  never  known  one  throb  of  self-sacri¬ 
ficing  passionate  affection  beneath  her  childless  breast. 

Stephen  Tredennick  did  not  remember  or  know  of  this, 
and  make  her  the  allowance  which  must  be  made  for  those 
placidly  self-satisfied,  prosperous-lived,  cold,  untried  natures. 
He  was  surprised  and  displeased;  and  the  remembrance  of 
the  desolate,  humble  little  figure  drove  all  other  considera¬ 
tions  out  of  his  head. 

He  was  very  silent  for  a  long  time,  until  Madam,  impa¬ 
tiently  abandoning  all  further  attempts  at  conversation, 
pushed  her  cup  aside,  and  betook  herself  to  the  perusal  of 
one  of  “  Mudie’s  last.” 

“  You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,  Tredennick,”  she  said  curtly; 
“  pray  do  not  stand  on  any  ceremony.  I  shall  read  for  an 
hour  or  so.” 

“Very  well,  aunt,”  he  replied,  and,  bidding  her  good-night, 
quitted  the  room. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  Captain  Stephen  Treden¬ 
nick,  instead  of  being  ensconced  in  the  well-lighted,  well- 
warmed  bachelor  rooms  which  were  given  up  for  the  nonce 
to  him  and  tobacco-smoke,  was  prowling  about,  in  a  state  of 
dire  uncertainty,  though  gloomy,  draughty  passages  and 
rooms  in  the  lower  regions  of  Rose  worthy  House,  and  in 
close  proximity  to  the  cellars  and  pantries. 

“  I  really  must  satisfy  myself,”  he  muttered  self-apologeti- 
cally — “  I  really  must  know  if  my  aunt  intends  sending  that 
poor  little  girl  home  along  the  cliffs  through  such  a  gale  and 
rain  as  this.  The  poor  child  is  safe  for  coughs  and  colds  long 
enough,  I  dare  say.  I  really  should  not  wonder  if  she  were 
made  to  return  as  she  came.  I  wonder  at  aunt  Vivian!  I 
really  never  would - ” 

Here  Captain  Tredennicl^s  kind-heartedness  and  progress¬ 
ive  search  brought  him  up  t6  a  closed  door,  beneath  which 
shone  a  light,  and  through  which  came  the  sound  of  women’s 
voices. 

“I  beg  your  pardon — would  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell 
me,”  he  began,  with  a  true  gentlemanly  courtesy  to  servants, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  15 

and  especially  women-servants,  as  he  gently  knocked,  and, 
being  bidden  to  enter,  pushed  the  door  ajar. 

The  room,  a  small,  cosy,  humbly-furnished  parlour,  with  a 
bright  fire,  a  singing  tea  kettle,  and  a  most  fragrant  perfume 
of  tea,  toast,  and  cake,  was  evidently  that  comfortable  sanc¬ 
tum  of  the  female  chiefs  of  the  kingdom  below  stairs,  “the 
housekeeper’s  room;  ”  nor  had  Captain  Tredennick  any  diffi¬ 
culty  in  recognising  those  personages  in  the  prim,  genteel, 
silk  attired  lady’s  maid  and  the  rosy,  rotund,  white-aproned 
cook. 

“Would  you  tell  me  if  the  little  girl — that  poor  little  body 
who  came  here  a  while  ago  through  the  storm - ” 

He  stopped;  for  the  cook  had  risen  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  curtsied,  toasting  fork  in  hand,  smiling  in  the 
direction  of  the  little  arm-chair  opposite  the  lady’s  maid. 

“  Oh,  there  she  is!  ”  said  Captain  Tredennick,  much  relieved, 
when,  at  the  first  glance  in  the  direction  the  cook  had  indi¬ 
cated,  he  perceived  a  small  figure,  huddled  in  a  bright  flaring- 
coloured  shawl  and  a  rather  bundled-up-looking  costume, 
resting  in  the  soft  little,  shabby-pillowed  chair  by  the  bright 
fireside.  “  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  being  comfortably  taken 
care  of,”  he  added,  pleasantly.  “  I  was  afraid  that  you  might 
have  been  foolish  enough  to  venture  home  by  the  cliffs  this 
wild  night — you  will  not  attempt  it,  I  hope?” 

The  little  figure  half  rose  from  her  seat,  trying  to  arrange 
her  cumbersome  drapery,  which  evidently  belonged  to  a  far 
larger  and  taller  person,  and  holding  the  gay  crimson-and- 
yellow  shawl  tightly  around  her. 

“  Oh  no,  sir,  thank  you,”  she  said,  and  a  timid  flush  rose 
over  her  small  pale  face  up  to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair. 
“  Since  I  have  come,  Madam  Vivian  says  I  am  to  stop  to-night 
at  Roseworthy;  and  Mrs.  Grose,  the  cook,  and  Miss  Trewhella 
have  been  very  kind  to  me.” 

She  smiled  a  little  smile  of  shy  girlish  fun  at  her  big  shawl 
and  trailing  skirts. 

“  Not  at  all,  Miss  Winnie  dear,”  interposed  Miss  Trewhella, 
with  a  genteel  short  cough  and  deprecatory  gesture.  “  Your 
dress  was  perfectly  wet  through,  you  know — perfectly  wet, 
sir,”  she  added,  turning  to  Captain  Tredennick  with  a 
politely  explanatory  air;  “  and  of  course  we  had  to  resort  to 
remedies  to  prevent  poor  Miss  Winnie  from  catching  cold — 
poor  child.” 

“  Indeed,  yes,”  Mrs.  Grose  put  in,  with  a  broad  humorous 
smile  on  her  round,  red,  shining  face;  “  she  was  as  wet  as  a 


16 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


drowned  rat,  Captain  Stephen,  sir.”  Miss  Trewhella  coughed 
again  to  drown  the  vulgar  simile,  but  Mrs.  Grose  went  on 
persistently,  the  fat  pleasant  smile  beginning  to  widen  into  a 
laugh.  “No  wonder,  such  a  terrible  soaking  night  as  this. 
She  hadn’t  a  dry  thread  on  her — had  you,  Miss  Winnie,  dearie? 
We  had  to  take  every  stitch  off  of  her,  poor  child;  and  she 

has  nothing  on  now  only - ”  Miss  Trewhella  coughed  as  if 

she  would  break  a  blood-vessel,  and  darted  a  look  of  dignified 
horror  at  the  cook — “only  some  things  of  mine  and  Miss 
Trewhella’s,  sir,”  continued  the  cook  equably,  proceeding  to 
butter  the  toast;  “  and  we  are  a-making  of  her  a  bit  com¬ 
fortable.” 

“Indeed,  so  I  see,”  said  Captain  Stephen,  looking  pleased; 
“  there  is  no  fear  for  any  one  in  these  comfortable  quarters, 
Mrs.  Grose.  Don’t  let  me  disturb  you,  I  beg,”  he  went  on, 
moving  nearer  to  the  fire  as  Miss  Trewhella  glided  away  with 
a  profound  and  graceful  curtsey.  He  meant  to  shake  hands 
with  the  little  girl,  and  warn  her  to  avoid  travelling  by  Tre- 
garthen  Head  any  more  on  dark  stormy  evenings  like  this. 
“  I' can  not  tell  how  you  could  manage  to  keep  your  feet  along 
that  cliff  road  over  the  Head  in  such  a  gale,”  he  was  saying, 
when  his  notice  became  attracted  to  the  young  girl’s  hair. 

That  it  was  thick,  and  dark,  and  hanging  in  dishevelled 
masses  over  her  shoulders  he  had  seen  at  first,  but  not  until 
the  blazing  firelight  and  his  immediate  proximity  revealed  it 
to  him  did  he  perceive  its  lustrous,  wavy  abundance,  the 
burnished  golden  light  on  the  wealth  of  ripples  and  tresses, 
naturally  curling  from  the  effects  of  the  late  wetting  and 
sudden  hot  drying,  and  its  great  length.  As  she  sat,  it  fell 
below  her  waist,  and  lay  in  silken  masses  in  her  lap. 

With  honest,  simple,  admiring  surprise,  with  not  a  spice  of 
sailor  gallantry  in  his  kind  gray  eyes,  he  laid  his  hand  lightly 
on  the  little  bowed  head  by  his  side. 

“  My  dear  child,  what  beautiful  hair  you  have!  ”  he  said. 

She  looked  up  in  quick  astonishment,  her  quiet,  rather  plain 
face  lighting  up  strangely  writh  pleasure,  and  a  pair  of  very 
dark  deep-set  eyes  seeking  his  most  earnestly. 

Stephen  Tredennick  had  read — as  who  has  not? — the  beau¬ 
tiful  and  touching  story  of  “  The  Child  of  the  Marshalsea;” 
and  in  this  moment  there  flashed  across  his  memory  the  scene 
where  the  wretched  woman,  who  yields  to  “  Little  Dorrit’s” 
tender  pleadings  for  a  few  words  as  they  encounter  each  other 
in  the  dreary  London  streets,  starts  back  from  the  first  look 
into  the  pitying  eyes  with  the  wild  cry,  “  You  are  a  woman!” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


17 


for,  at  the  first  glance  of  the  dark,  expressive,  wistful,  inquir¬ 
ing  eyes  upturned  to  his  face,  he  had  almost  started  back  and 
uttered  a  like  exclamation. 

He  had  taken  her  to  be  a  girl  about  fourteen.  Very  young 
as  she  undoubtedly  was,  and  small  and  slight  her  form,  there 
was  a  strong,  brave,  passionate,  womanly  soul  looking  through 
those  eyes — there  were  womanly  sorrow  and  womanly  endur¬ 
ance  in  the  lines  around  her  gentle,  firm  mouth.  They  sofk 
ened,  and  the  face  grew  very  young  and  girlish  in  the  quick 
flush  _of  happiness  and  innocent  vanity  which -his  words  had 
called  forth,  but  she  drew  her  hair  away  from  his  touch,  and 
a  certain  air  of  womanly  dignity  replaced  the  girlish  blush. 

“My  hair  was  quite  wet,  sir,  and  had  to  be  all  dried,”  she 
said,  pushing  it  back  almost  out  of  sight. 

“  And  it’s  none  so  dry  yet  that  you  should  put  it  away  like 
that,  Miss  Winnie,”  interposed  Mrs.  Grose,  rather  mischiev¬ 
ously.  “  Captain  Tredennick  never  saw  finer  hair  than  that 
in  his  life.  Now  did  you,  sir?  ” 

“  No,  I  do  not  think  I  ever  did,”  he  replied,  smiling  cour¬ 
teously — “  that  is,  what  I  was  allowed  to  see  of  it.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  waiting  to  catch  the  girl’s  eye,  but 
she  kept  her  face  turned  away,  and  he  thought  he  saw  her 
low  white  brow  knit  in  an  uneasy  frown. 

“Good-night,  Miss — Miss— — ”  he  said  confusedly,  believ¬ 
ing  that  he  had  forgotten  a  name  which,  in  fact,  he  had  never 
heard. 

“My  name  is  Winifred  Caerlyon,  sir,”  she  vouchsafed 
quietly,  barely  glancing  at  him,  and  then  looking  away  again. 

“  The  Captain  is  waiting  to  bid  you  good-night,  Miss  Win¬ 
nie,  my  dear,”  remonstrated  Mrs.  Grose  in  a  very  urgent 
undertone. 

She  rose  instantly,  obedient.  It  troubled  Stephen  Treden¬ 
nick,  though  he  could  not  have  told  why,  to  see  that  quick 
humble  obedience,  to  hear  her  hasty  “I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,”  and  see  the  timid  flush  in  her  cheeks  as  she  placed  her 
small,  hard,  labour-marked  hand  in  his. 

Not  as  Stephen  Tredennick,  the  sailor  who  wanted  to  be 
kind  to  another  sailor’s  daughter,  did  she  regard  him,  but  as 
the  great  gentleman,  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen — the  favourite 
nephew  and  heir  of  her  grand  patroness. 

A  thought  like  this  crossed  his  mind,  as  his  fingers  warmly 
pressed  those  poor  slim  girlish  ones,  roughened  from  stitch¬ 
ing,  and  marked  with  the  inevitable  scars  and  scratches  of 
constant  household  work. 

% 


18  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

“Poor  child!  Poor  little  girl!”  he  ejaculated  mentally. 
“  Good-night,”  said  he,  kindly.  “  I  hope  you  will  be  none 
the  worse  for  your  wetting;  it  was  much  too  severe  a  night 
for  a  young  lady  to  venture  out.” 

Something  in  the  flickering  light  of  a  sarcastic  smile  on 
her  lips,  and  an  involuntary  turn  of  her  head  towards  Mrs. 
Grose,  where  that  worthy  woman  was  pouring  out  tea,  as  she 
said,  “I  am  used  to  being  out  on  business  in  all  weathers,  sir 
— I  do  not  mind  it,’’  were  a  revelation  to  him  of  much  of  poor 
Winnie  Caerlyon’s  daily  life. 

“No,  indeed,  my  dear,”  muttered  Mrs.  Grose  with  a  sigh. 
“  Now  your  tea  is  ready,  Miss  Winnie,  and  I  hope  you’ll  take 
it  hearty.  Miss  Winnie  is  having  her  tea  in  our  little  par¬ 
lour,  you  know,  sir,  because  it  is  more  comfortable  for  her,” 
she  said,  apologetically,  to  Captain  Tredennick.  “  Having 
her  dress  dried,  and  no  clothes  on,  you  may  say — oh,  dear 
me!  dear  me!  Miss  Trewhella,  you’ve  stood  on  my  corn 
dreadful!  And,  besides,  it  was  after  Madam’s  tea  time  when 
she  came — and  Miss  Winnie  doesn’t  mind  having  it  down 
here  with  her  poor  old  nursey — do  you,  dear?  I  nursed  her 
when  she  wasn’t  a  month  old,  Captain  Tredennick,  sir — when 
her  own  dear  mamma  was  living.” 

“And  of  course  you  are  very  fond  of  her?”  He  uttered 
the  words  as  he  stood,  holding  her  hand  still  in  his,  looking 
down  from  his  five  feet  eleven  of  masculine  height  and 
strength  on  the  slender  little  womanly  figure,  looking  so 
oddly  old-fashioned  and  young  and  helpless  in  the  ridiculously 
long  trailing  dress  and  shawl — on  the  anxious  white  brow, 
the  sad  little  mouth,  the  downcast  eyelids,  and  the  rich  beauty 
of  her  luxuriant  hair,  at  variance  in  its  wealth  of  loveliness 
with  that  quiet  grave  face,  boasting  of  no  fairness  save  its 
intelligence,  gentleness,  and  womanly  purity.  “  Poor  little 
girl!  ”  he  said,  pityingly  to  himself — “poor  dear  little  girl!  ” 

As  if  answering  his  thoughts,  Mrs.  Grose,  the  worthy, 
rotund  cook,  responded  affectionately  to  his  question — 

“Indeed,  Captain  Stephen,  sir,  there’s  not  many  who  could 
help  being  fond  of  my  poor  little  Miss  Winnie.” 

And  on  the  spot  a  queer  idea  flitted  through  Captain  Tre- 
dennick’s  mind — that  if  this  poor  little  girl  belonged  to  him 
in  any  way,  how  fond  of  her  he  should  be — it  would  be  such 
a  pleasure  to  take  care  of  a  meek,  gentle  little  creature  like 
her! 

A  full  hour  and  a  half  afterwards— that  is,  at  twenty  min¬ 
utes  to  twelve — Captain  Stephen  Tredennick,  who  had  quitted 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


19 


Madam  Vivian’s  society  at  half-past  nine  o’clock,  fatigued 
and  unsocial  in  humour,  was  sitting  before  the  study-fire, 
smoking,  with  as  little  notion  of,  or  desire  for,  retiring  to  rest 
as  he  had  had  at  dinner-time.  Madam  Vivian  did  not  know 
it,  fortunately. 

Busily  and  dreamily  as  the  minutes  slipped  by  and  length¬ 
ened  into  half-hours,  Captain  Tredennick’s  mind  went  over  a 
variety  of  subjects,  whilst  the  odorous  clouds  of  tobacco- 
smoke  wove  wreaths  of  misty  fancies  around  him,  and  the 
soft  rustle  of  a  falling  cinder  from  the  red  fire  alone  broke 
the  hushed  silence. 

From  the  Chittoor ,  her  cargo  and  insurance  money,  his 
thoughts  wandered  to  his  friend  Captain  Marty n  of  the  Inches, 
the  required  repairs  of  the  old  house  of  Tregarthen,  the  gale, 
the  Channel  soundings,  the  sunken  rocks  off  Tregarthen 
Head,  and  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon. 

“Poor  little  lass!  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  has  rough 
water  to  make  her  way  through,”  he  muttered  commisera- 
tingly — “a  careless  father,  an  unkind  step-mother,  and  a  shoal 
of  young  step-brothers  and  step-sisters;  and  she  made  a 
patient  little  drudge  for  all!  A  nice,  gentle  girl — pretty, 
rather,  I  think — beautiful  hair,  like  a  mermaid’s — poor  child! 
— one  of  those  meek  patient  little  women  that  seem  jnade  for 
strong  hearty  fellows  to  pet  and  take  care  of.”  And  here 
Captain  Tredennick’s  mind  travelled  over  his  list  of  acquaint¬ 
ances  to  try  to  recall  the  memory  of  some  strong  hearty  fellow 
whom  he  could  conscientiously  recommend  to  himself  as  the 
life-long  lover  and  protector  of  a  “  meek,  patient  little  woman.” 

“An  honest  warm-hearted  sailor  now,”  he  said  musingly; 
“  they  make  good  husbands,  generally  speaking,  only  their 
wives  have  little  of  their  company.  Let  jne  see.  Martyn 
now,  only  he’s  married  two  years  ago — nice  little  woman  too 
— somewhat  like  Winnie  Caerlyon,  I  think— a  girl  couldn’t 
find  a  better  man  or  braver  officer  than  Martyn.  Let  me  see.” 

Some  sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  the  Captain  of  the 
East  Indiaman  Chittoor .  With  a  very  sober  face  he  laid  his 
pipe  aside,  rose,  and  surveyed  himself  in  the  nearest  mirror 
for  a  lengthened  space  of  time,  until  a  grim  smile  replaced 
the  earnest  gaze.  He  shook  his  head  at  his  own  reflection, 
turned  away,  and  left  the  room. 

“  Stephen  Tredennick,  my  lad,”  said  he,  smiling  in  the 
same  cynical  amused  fashion  as  he  went,  “  you’ve  been  dream¬ 
ing— dreaming  in  your  chair,  my  lad.  You  had  better  wake 
up  now,  and  turn  into  your  berth  properly.” 


20 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  cold,  leaden-hued  dawn  of  the  wild  March  morning 
was  just  breaking  over  the  stormy  sea,  where  the  dark,  low¬ 
ering  horizon  blended  in  mist  wdth  the  level  waste,  the  dismal 
gray  of  the  tossing  angry  waters;  the  gloom  of  dreary  same¬ 
ness  relieved  only  by  the  deadly  whiteness  of  the  fierce 
breakers  frothing  and  surging  around  the  buried  forms  of  the 
dark  rock-Titans,  whose  cruel  ministers  they  were,  wreathing 
their  stony  brows,  their  murderous,  iron-nailed  arms,  with  the 
trophies  of  their  pitiless  warfare — trailing  lengths  of  gleam¬ 
ing  sea-weeds,  shell  encrusted,  torn  from  ocean  homes  afar, 
leaves  and  grasses  of  other  lands  helplessly  drifted  out  to  sea, 
wreaths  of  crushed  blossoms  which  had  bloomed  scores  of 
miles  away  from  that  barren  headland  and  its  wild  shore. 
Alas!  there  had  been  more  precious  gifts  given  by  the  fierce 
white-crested  waves  to  the  cruel  jaws  and  pitiless  rending  of 
those  black,  jagged,  shining  rocks  lying  in  the  lap  of  their 
ocean  mistress.  Many  a  fair  human  growth,  a  brave  young 
forest  tree,  a  tender  vine,  a  frail  sweet  rose,  had  been  the 
doomed  blossoms  of  the  fatal  wreaths  for  the  adorning  of  the 
Black  Reef  of  Tregarthen  Head. 

“  There  is  not  a  worse  spot,  with  the  wind  inshore,  between 
this  and  the  Goodwins,”  and  Captain  Tredennick,  shutting 
up  his  glass  as  he  spoke, -after  a  brief  survey  of  the  coastline, 
buttoned  his  thick  pea-jacket  closer  and  turned  towards 
Tregarthen  Head.* 

He  had  been  up  and  out  with  the  first  rays  of  light,  quit¬ 
ting. the  house  by  a  singly-barred  entrance,  which  fastened 
with  a  spring  lock  and  could  be  opened  only  from  the  inside. 

“  Still,  it  should  have  been  made  safe  with  the  drop  bolt,” 
said  the  Captain  as  he  passed  through;  “  lubberly  work  that, 
to  leave  a  door  unfastened  all  night  in  such  a  gale!  ” 

For  no  one  of  course  was  awake  or  stirring  at  this  hour 
save  himself.  The  shuttered  windows,  the  drawn  blinds,  and 
smokeless  chimneys  proclaimed  the  fact  from  the  outside,  if 
there  had  been  any  doubts  in  his  mind. 

The  gale  had  not  exhausted  itself  yet,  and  raged  on  almost 
as  wildly  as  on  the  previous  night,  whilst  the  angry-looking 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


21 


coppery-huecl  masses  of  cloud  out  on  the  murky  western  hor¬ 
izon,  streaming  up  athwart  the  wild  gray  sky  in  wisp-like 
storm-driven  wreaths,  gave  dreary  assurance  of  its  continuance; 
and  bitterly  cold  and  raw  struck  the  damp  March  morning 
air  even  to  the  sailor’s  hardy  lungs  and  weather-beaten  face, 
as  he  quitted  the  shelter  of  the  wooded  grounds  of  Rose¬ 
worthy  for  the  bleak  exposed  cliff-road. 

He  had  taken  but  a  few  paces  in  this  direction  when  he 
came  to  a  dead  stop,  gazing  ahead;  and  even  for  a  moment 
his  hand  mechanically  fumbled  with  his  glass — as  if  his  keen 
eyesight  could  have  deceived  him!  For  it  needed  no  tele¬ 
scope  to  discern  plainly  and  recognise  the  slight  dark  figure 
standing  in  a  sheltered  turn  of  the  road. 

/  “ Neptune!”  exclaimed  Captain  Tredennick  in  his  amaze¬ 

ment,  with  a  soft  whistle — “here  is  the  little  mermaid!  ” 

The  little  dark  figure  turned  hastily  at  the  sound  of  ad¬ 
vancing  footsteps,  and  the  shy  quick  flush  mounted  to  her 
face  as  Captain  Tredennick  came  up  smiling. 

a’Pon  my  word,  you  are  early  abroad,  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon!”  he  laughed.  “Are  you  come  out  to  taste  the 
salt  spray?  It  blows  right  in  one’s  face  up  from  the  rocks.” 

“No,  sir,”  she  said,  turning  her  small  pale  face,  looking 
quite  wan  and  child-like  in  the  cold  gray  morning  light, 
towards  the  storm-beaten  headland;  “I  am  going  home — I 
must  be  home  by  seven  o’clock.” 

“Going  home!”  he  repeated,  remonstratingly.  “Surely 
you  will  wait  to  breakfast  with  us — or  have  you  breakfasted 
already?  ” 

“Oh,  no!”  said  she  hurriedly,  and  blushing  again  at  the 
avowal.  “I  don’t  mind  in  the  least — I  always  go  home  early 
when  I  stay  at  Roseworthy  for  the  night,  unless  Madam  has 
asked  me  to  stay;  father  and  mamma  and  all  of  them  expect 
me.”  She  drew  the  faded  woollen  shawl  over  her  thin  cloth 
jacket,  and  shivered  violently  as  the  keen  sea  breeze  blew 
her  wrapper  about.  “  The  morning  is  very  cold,  is  it  not, 
sir?”  she  said,  trying  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering,,  while 
her  very  lips  grew  pinched  and  blue.  “  I  ran  off  without 
letting  Mrs.  Grose  know — she  would  have  insisted  on  keep¬ 
ing  me  until  she  had  some  breakfast  ready.” 

“  My  dear  child,”  said  Captain  Tr^ennick,  feeling  quite 
fatherly  in  his  earnestness,  “you  should  not  have  come  out 
this  bleak  morning  fasting— after  the  wetting  and  fatigue  of 
last  night,  too.  Pray  come  back  to  the  house,  and  we  will 
hurry  the  servants  up  to  get  you  a  cup  of  coffee  at  least.” 


22 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  Oh,  dear,  no,  sir— thank  you,”  returned  Winnie,  with 
gravely-astonished  rehuke  at  his  dreaming  of  such  a  proposal 
to  her;  “I  shall  he  home  soon.  I  shall  run  very  fast  down 
the  slope  beyond  the  Head.  Good-morning,  Captain  Tre- 
dennick.” 

She  stretched  out  her  little  hand  in  its  poor  little  knitted 
woollen-glove;  and  Captain  Tredennick,  feeling  himself  a 
grandfather  at  least,  took  it  and  drew  it  safely  within  his  arm. 

“  If  you  are  going  to  run,  I  shall  run  too,”  said  he,  smiling 
protectingly,  “  until  I  see  you  run  safe  in  at  your  father’s 
door.” 

But  Winnie  coloured  deeply,  looked  frightened,  apologised, 
and  refused. 

“  Well,  you  will  allow  me  to  walk  beside  you  as  far  as 
Tregartlien  Head,  if  you  will  not  accept  my  arm,  Miss 
Caerlyon?  ”  requested  Captain  Tredennick,  feeling  rather 
mortified,  and  feeling  less  like  Winnie’s  grandfather  than  the 
sailor  in  the  presence  of  another  sailor’s  daughter,  which  he 
had  considered  himself  the  evening  before — and  a  sailor’s 
daughter  who  had  repulsed  his  proffered  kindness  very 
decidedly. 

“  A  strange,  distant,  shy  little  thing,”  he  said,  mentally. 
And  then  he  looked  again  at  the  small,  earnest  features,  the 
anxious,  lined  brow,  the  gentle,  pleading  look  in  the  dark, 
deep-set  eyes,  the  little,  frail  womanly  figure  looking  so 
lonely  and  forlorn  on  that  desolate  road,  the  thin  fluttering 
garments  sprinkled  by  the  salt  spray  and  mist  from  the  thun¬ 
dering  billows  crashing  against  the  face  of  the  cliffs,  and  the 
tender,  passionate  pity  that  is  ever  in  the  warm,  strong  heart 
of  a  true  man  for  feminine  defencelessness  and  bodily  weak¬ 
ness  rose  within  him  throbbing  to  his  very  lips. 

“  Oh,  no,  sir,”  she  said,  hurriedly,  in  answer  to  his  half- 
provoked  query;  “  you  are  exceedingly  kind — but  I  could  not 
think  of  troubling  you;  and — besides - ” 

“ Besides  what?”  asked  he,  laughing.  “I  am  not  such  a 
gay  young  spark  that  you  should  object  to  my  escort,  Miss 
Winnie;  and  I  am  delighted  to  have  some  company  along 
this  bare  bit  of  road.  I  took  it  into  my  head,  as  soon  as  I 
woke  this  morning,  tg  go  and  look  over  that  old  place  of 
mine  at  Tregarthen;  so  off  I  started.  I  hope  I  shall  find  the 
old  couple  awake  and  stirring.” 

“The  Truscotts?”  questioned  Winnie.  “  Oh,  yes,  you 
will,  Captain  Tredennick,  for  there  is  Tolgootli-mine  bell 
ringing  for  six  o’clock,  and  they  are  always  up  at  six, I  know.” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MOKNING, 


23 


“  You  know  them,  then — a  worthy  old  pair  they  are!”  said 
Captain  Tredennick,  turning  abruptly  off  the  main  road. 
“  Come  down  Mennacarthen  Lane,  then,  Miss  Caerlyon;  it 
will  not  take  you  a  quarter  of  a  mile  out  of  your  road,  and 
we  will  stop  at  Tregarthen  a  .  few  minutes.  I  am  getting 
hungry,  if  you  are  not,  and  mean  to  ask  old  Mother  Truscott 
for  a  cup  of  tea.” 

But  Winnie  hesitated,  coloured,  and  looked  distressed 
again. 

“  Come  along,”  said  he,  gaily,  offering  his  pilot-cloth-cov¬ 
ered  arm  for  her  acceptance  a  second  time.  Plainly  Captain 
Tredennick’s  “jolly-sailor”  existence  on  board  the  Chittoor 
— educated  gentleman  though  he  was — had  rendered  him 
pleasantly  forgetful  or  regardless  of  nice  conventionalities. 
“  Unless  you  are  in  a  terrible  hurry  to  get  home,  or  are  afraid 
that  I  am  going  to  eat  you,”  he  added,  banteringly. 

His  words  seemed  to  strike  some  unpleasant  chord  in  the 
girl’s  mind;  she  did  not  accept  his  arm,  but  she  quitted  the 
high-road  and  turned  down  the  lane  to  Tregarthen  beside  him. 

“  I  am  never  afraid  except  when  I  think  I  am  doing  wrong,” 
she  returned,  firmly  and  quietly;  “and  I  only  want  to  be 
home  in  time  to  get  breakfast  ready,  sir.” 

“That  is  very  good  of  you  to  be  so  helpful  to  your 
mother,”  remarked  Captain  Tredennick  approvingly,  falling 
into  the  fatherly  style  again  as  he  and  Winnie  walked  slowly 
along  the  rough  muddy  lane.  But  no  ray  of  glad  filial 
pleasure  and  gratitude  sparkled  in  the  girl’s  grave  face. 

“It  is  my  duty,  of  course,  to  do  all  that  I  can  to  help  them 
when  help  is  required,”  she  said  seriously.  “  And  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  done  in  a  house  like  ours.” 

“Ah,  plenty  of  little  brothers  and  sisters?”  queried  Cap¬ 
tain  Tredennick,  smiling. 

“Yes,  sir,”  replied  Winnie,  gravely;  “there  are  six  of 
them  and  the  new  baby - ” 

“  The  new  baby?  ”  echoed  Captain  Tredennick.  “  And  the 
new  baby  is  the  most  troublesome  of  the  lot,  I’ll  engage.” 

“  Oh,  no,  sir,”  said  Winnie,  looking  up  into  his  face,  rather 
puzzled  to  discover  if  he  were  in  jest  or  earnest;  “  she  is  a 
dear,  gentle,  patient  little  creature.  I  am  afraid  she  is  not 
healthy — she  is  so  quiet.” 

“  Dear  me,”  broke  out  Captain  Tredennick,  laughing,  “  I 
never  knew  before  now  that  that  was  a  fatal  symptom  in  a 
child!  ”  “  I  hope  it  isn’t  so  with  you,  you  dear,  patient, 

gentle  little  creature!  ”  he  added  mentally,  the  wish  recurring 


24 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MOBNING. 


strongly  to  liim  that  he  could  call  to  mind  that  paragon  of  an 
honest,  brave,  strong,  tender-hearted  fellow  to  take  charge  of 
the  future  comfort  and  hapj)iness  of  the  patient  kind-hearted 
little  woman  who  spoke  so  lovingly  of  that  ailing  baby — her 
step-mother’s  seventh  infant. 

“And  now,  sir,  I  will  say  good-morning  again,”  said  Win¬ 
nie,  as  they  paused  at  the  entrance-gate  to  the  area  of  lawn 
and  shrubbery  around  Tregarthen  House,  neglected  and  over¬ 
grown  now,  bearing  traces  of  absence  and  decay,  as  did  all 
things  else — the  barred-up  broken  windows,  the  grass-grown 
door-step,  the  weedy  paths,  the  rank,  tangled  evergreens,  the 
lichen-covered  gate-pillars,  and  green,  shiny,  massive  iron  bars. 

“  You  won’t  come  in,  then,  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  have 
a  cup  of  hot  tea,  or  warm  yourself  at  the  fire?  ”  he  said,  dis¬ 
appointedly;  and  then  some  dim  remembrance  of  the  com 
ventionalities  glided  hazily  across  his  mind,  and  he  acquiesced 
unwillingly  in  her  decision.  “Well,  good-bye,  then,”  lie 
added,  pressing  the  little  woollen  gloved-hand,  “  since  you 
want  to  get  rid  of  me.” 

He  looked  so  pleasant,  so  kind,  so  handsome,  smiling  sun¬ 
nily  down  on  her  from  the  light  of  his  true,  clear  blue  eyes 
— he,  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen,  Captain  of  the  East  India 
merchantman  Chittoor ,  nephew  of  the  wealthy  aristocratic 
lady  who  bore  her  foreign-sounding  title  of  “  Madam,”  as  all 
the  wives  of  the  heirs  of  Roseworthy  had  done  for  genera¬ 
tions,  so  grandly  that  “  Madam  Vivian,”  or  “  Madam  of 
Roseworthy,”  became  a  standard  in  the  minds  of  the  humble 
ones  of  the  earth,  miners  and  their  wives,  her  village  proteges 
and  favourite  poor  women,  by  which  to  measure  the  com¬ 
parative  merits  and  greatness  of  other  aristocrats — he,  a 
learned  gentleman,  a  brave  sailor,  grand  and  great  in  his 
years,  his  strength,  his  handsome  face,  his  moneyed  independ¬ 
ence- — he  so  kind  and  courteous  to  her — to  her,  poor,  plain¬ 
looking,  ill-clad  Winnie  Caerlyon,  whom  her  shrewish  step¬ 
mother  called  “  a  great,  awkward,  gad-about  of  a  maid,” 
when  she  had  the  misfortune  to  require  new  boots — worn 
out,  perhaps,  all  the  sooner  by  her  long  walks  to  Rose  worthy, 
which,  in  its  luxury,  elegance,  and  quiet,  was  poor  Winnie’s 
Paradise  Regained  on  earth. 

“  I  do  not  indeed,  Captain  Tredennick,”  was  poor  Winnie’s 
childish  reply;  and  the  great  tears  started  to  her  sad,  earnest 
gray  eyes.  “  Please  don’t  think  me  rude.” 

She  was  so  awkward,  so  unpolished,  so  ignorant,  she 
thought.  Her  step-mother  often  said  so,  broadly  and  directly; 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  25 

Madam  Vivian  often  hinted  it  in  ladylike  language  of  rebuke 
or  advice. 

Winnie  had  very  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  speaking 
and  acting  as  she  did,  apart  from  all  ideas  of  mere  etiquette; 
and  it  was  that  knowledge,  and  the  shy,  proud  fear  of  its 
being  discovered,  that  made  her  brows  knit  so  nervously,  and 
her  pale  face  flush  beneath  the  sailor’s  glance. 

“  My  dear  child,”  said  he,  very  gently,  “  I  think  nothing 
but  that  you  are  a  good,  sensible,  thoughtful  girl.” 

The  words  were  but  kindly  paternal  in  tone  and  purport, 
and,  as  he  uttered  them,  he  laid  one  hand  reassuringly  on  her 
shoulder,  whilst  the  other  clasped  her  little,  miserably  cold, 
woollen-gloved  fingers  in  farewell;  but  Winnie  shrank  beneath 
that  gentle  touch  and  the  smile  of  those  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
the  nervous  twitching  of  her  brow  and  lips  grew  more  dis¬ 
tressful. 

There  was  no  magical  wishing-stone  by  these  moss-grown 
gate  pillars,  no  wisliing-well  bubbled  forth  its  fateful  waters 
beneath  the  clustering  masses  of  evergreens,  trailing  ivy, 
gleaming  laurel,  and  dark  prickly  carnelian-jewelled  holly 
which  grew  dank  and  close  in  the  neglected  shrubbery,  and, 
climbing  the  boundary  wall,  spread  their  dark  heavy  foliage 
down  to  shelter  the  pair  who  stood  beneath;  but  Stephen 
Tredennick  wished,  as  he  stood  there,  as  he  had  never  wished 
before.  Something — he  knew  not  what — had  touched  his 
heart  because  of  this  poor  little  maiden’s  girlish  loneliness 
and  poverty.  Truth  to  tell,  he  had  hitherto  known  very 
little,  and  cared  to  know  less,  of  small  girls  or  big  girls,  old 
maids  or  young  ones.  This  new  sensation  was  therefore  as 
strange  and  unaccountable  as  his  wishing  that  Winnie  Caer- 
lyon  lived  in  a  comfortable  handsome  house,  that  she  had  no 
work  to  do,  that  she  were  indulged  and  petted,  and  made 
pretty  presents  to,  like  other  happy  girls;  that  she  were 
Madam  Vivian’s  daughter  and  his  little  cousin,  or  sister,  or 
relative  in  some  way;  that  she  had  not  to  trudge  off  to  Tol- 
gooth  Bay  this  bitterly  cold  wild  .March  morning,  and  that 
she  had  a  warmer  and  better  jacket  on.  She  looked  so 
thinly  clad,  and  so  cold,  poor  little  creature!  One  of  those 
rich,  handsome,  satin-lined  fur  things,  now,  that  young  ladies 
wore  in  the  Park  or  in  Regent  Street,  would  be  just  the  very 
thing  for  her.  Oh,  how  he  wished  there  were  a  fur-shop 
within  walking  distance,  that  he  might  go  in  and  buy  one  for 
her! 

Stephen  Tredennick’s  one  great  luxury  and  extravagance 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


26 

was  to  make  the  most  acceptable  and  delightful  presents  to 
people  that  it  was  possible  for  them  to  receive — from  marvel¬ 
lous,  wildly-longed-for  buckhorn-handled,  six-bladed  pocket- 
knives  to  youngsters  at  school,  to  robes  of  cobweb  muslin 
spangled  with  beetles’  wings  from  Oriental  climes  for  their 
sisters.  He  would  get  one  for  her  as  soon  as  ever  he  went 
back  to  London — the  very  softest  and  richest  and  warmest 
of  the  satin-lined  fur-jackets  which  the  young  lady  in  the 
fur  shop  could  show  him!  And  send  it  to  her?  No;  he 
must  get  Madam  to  give  it  for  him,  and  say  something  kind 
to  pass  it  off;  it  was  not  quite  correct — those  droll  lands¬ 
men’s  notions! — to  give  presents  of  rich  clothes  to  strange 
young  ladies. 

Young  lady?  Why,  was  he  not  almost  old  enough  to  be 
the  poor  child’s  father?  Well,  no,  not  quite.  She  was 
about  sixteen  perhaps,  and  he  was  nearly  thirty-three — more 
than  double  her  age,  but  not  quite  old  enough  to  be  her 
father.  Well,  Madam  could  give  the  jacket,  with  his  kind 
regards,  to  Miss  Winnie  Caerlyon,  and  say  that  he  hoped  she 
would  wear  it  for  his  sake — would  that  do? 

No;  say — say,  Wear  it  if  she  pleased  for  a  keepsake.  Six¬ 
teen  and  thirty-three — quite  a  child  to  him!  Surely  an 
honest  plain  sailor  might  make  a  little  girl  a  nice  useful 
present?  Ah,  sixteen  and  thirty-three;  well — well! 

Perhaps  he  might  say  something  about  it  now,  and  prepare 
the  way;  it  might  please  her — young  girls  were  fond  of  pretty 
clothes,  poor  little  things — it  was  nearly  all  the  pleasure  they 
had  in  life,  except  when  they  had  a  sweetheart.  She  would 
be  pleased  perhaps  if  he  told  her,  and  it  would  brighten  up 
the  wan,  downcast,  thin  little  face. 

“  You  caught  no  cold  from  your  wetting  last  night,  I 
hope?”  he  began.  “This  is  a  very  sharp  morning,  too.  You 
would  want  a  tremendous  lot  of  wraps  if  you  took  many 
such  morning  walks  as  this.” 

Here — to  use  his  own  mental  declaration — as  he  strove  to 
steer  for  the  right  port,  the  wind  was  taken  clean  out  of  his 
sails  by  Winnie’s  quiet  rejoinder. 

“  I  have  plenty  of  wraps,  thank  you,  sir,  and  the  mornings 
are  seldom  as  cold  as  this.” 

But  the  wild  March  morning,  in  remorse,  perhaps,  for  its 
severity  to  the  poor  little  maid,  was  kindly  propitious  to 
Captain  Tredennick’s  generous  wishes;  and,  sending  a  sudden 
whirling  blast,  it  blew  a  long,  long  tress  of  curling  brown 
hair  from  beneath  the  silk  net  into  which  its  luxuriance  was 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


27 

thrust,  and  wafted  it  right  across  to  Captain  Tredennick’s 
shoulder,  twisting  it  around  one  of  his  anchor  buttons  in  a 
highly  ingenious  manner. 

“You  might  give  me  that  long  soft  pretty  curl  as  a  keep¬ 
sake,  Miss  Caerlyon,”  said  he,  laughing,  as  he  carefully 
unwound  the  errant  tress;  “it  wanted  to  come  to  me  evi¬ 
dently.  Let  me  have  it,  and  I’ll  send  you  home  something 
instead  of  it,  will  you?” 

“  Send  me  home  something  first,  sir,”  responded  Winnie, 
shyly,  Jmt  laughing  also,  as  she  tried  to  fasten  the  hair  behind 
her  little  white  ear. 

“Is  that  a  bargain?”  said  he,  eagerly.  “I  will  keep  you 
to  it,  Miss  Winnie.  No,  you  can’t  fasten  it;  your  little  fin¬ 
gers  are  too  cold.  Let  me;”  and  the  Captain  of  the  Chittoor , 
with  a  smile  playing  over  his  lips  and  in  his  sunny  blue  eyes, 
commenced  adjusting  Winnie’s  tumbled  brown  curls.  “  Mind, 
as  soon  as  ever  I  send  my  keepsake,  you  must  send  yours,” 
he  went  on,  looking  earnestly  down  into  the  pure  girlish 
little  face  upturned  to  his  own,  as  she  murmured  bashful 
thanks,  and  deeper  unuttered  thanks  for  his  kind  words,  his 
kind  voice,  his  kind  manners — oh,  this  kind,  great,  tall, 
strong,  brave,  handsome  Captain  of  the  East  Indiaman  Chit¬ 
toor! — shone  from  the  dark  depths  of  her  lustrous  gray  eyes. 

“  You  haven’t  promised  yet,  Miss  Winifred,”  he  said  with 
brotherly  pleasantry,  keeping  hold  of  her— she  being  but 
sixteen  to  his  great  seniority  of  thirty-three — “  perhaps  I  had 
better  make  sure  of  my  keepsake  now!  What  is  the 
matter?” 

The  sudden  ejaculation  was  not  unreasonable,  for  Winnie 
in  an  instant  had  sprung  from  his  side  and  the  caressing 
touch  of  his  hand,  her  face  flaming  crimson  and  then  fading 
deadly  white,  and  the  dark-gray  eyes,  which  had  glowed  with 
such  girlish  enthusiasm  of  gratitude  upon  him,  dilating  for  a 
moment  with  a  sort  of  terror,  and  then  blazing  with  a  proud 
defiant  anger  that  startled  her  companion  as  a  new  revelation 
of  her  character. 

“  Good-morning  to  you,  Miss  Winnie!  You  can  take  early 
strolls  fast  enough,  I  see!  ” 

The  strange  voice  had  the  peculiar  disagreeable  quality  of 
being  a  naturally  vulgar  one,  with  a  strong  provincial  accent, 
and  likewise,  being  such,  was  tarnished  over,  so  to  speak, 
with  a  far  more  vulgar  assumption  of  genteel  tone  and  pro¬ 
nunciation,  which  assorted  as  well  with  it  as  the  genteel 
affectation  did  with  the  provincial  form  of  dialect,  and  as 


28  all  in  the  wild  maech  moening. 


well,  or  as  ill,  as  it  did  with  the  face  and  figure  which  had 
suddenly  confronted  Winnie. 

It  seemed  to  Captain  Tredennick,  in  his  angry,  startled 
surprise,  as  if  the  intruder  must  have  sprung  out  of  the  earth 
— this  spare,  sinewy,  undersized  man,  with  a  shrewd,  fox-like, 
ifarrow  face,  and  a  gleam  of  a  cold  unpleasant  smile  in  the 
cunning  twinkling  red-brown  eyes,  and  curving  around  the 
thin  pointed  lips,  as  he  darted  a  quick  glance  from  Winnie 
to  Captain  Tredennick. 

“  Good-morning,  Mr.  Pascoe,”  the  girl  said,  coldly  find  dis¬ 
tantly;  “  I  am  not  taking  an  early  stroll,  though,  as  I  dare 
say  you  know  very  well,  but  am  returning  home  from  Madam 
Vivian’s.” 

The  man  she  addressed  merely  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  a 
most  disagreeably  impertinent  smile  of  disbelief,  and  shook 
his  head  slightly. 

“  Going  home  from  Madam  Vivian’s  by  Mennacarthen 
Lane  and  into  Tregarthen  House?”  said  he,  showing  the  edge 
of  his  teeth,  and  the  smile  changing  into  a  frown. 

“  I  was  not  going  into  Tregarthen  House,  Mr.  Pascoe!” 
retorted  Winnie,  the  colour  rushing  back  to  her  pallid  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  flashing. 

“Weren’t  you?  H’m!  It  looked  very  like  it,  Miss  Win¬ 
nie,”  he  replied,  with  an  insolent  assumption  of  easy 
familiarity. 

“Who  is  this  person?”  demanded  Captain  Tredennick, 
hotly. 

“  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe — the  purser  of  the  Tolgooth  Mines, 
and  a  relation  of  my  step-mother’s,  sir,”  replied  Winnie, 
aflame  of  angry  defiance  in  Tier  cheeks  and  eyes,  as  she  partly 
turned  her  back  on  that  individual. 

He  perceived  the  action  of  girlish  disdain,  and  the  crafty 
underbred  face  grew  full  of  the  petty  malice  of  a  mean, 
little-minded  man’s  revenge  for  a  woman’s  slight. 

“No  need  for  ye  to  be  so  angry,  miss,”  said  he,  with  a 
sneering  laugh;  “I  never  tell  on  ye  to  your  father  or  mother! 
That  is  all  the  thanks  I  get — and  stand  your  friend  in  many 
a  way  besides!  ” 

“I  don’t  want  your  friendship!”  cried  Winnie  furiously, 
in  a  sudden  childish  rage  that  shook  Captain  Tredennick’s 
belief  in  the  patience  of  his  gentle  little  maid  very  consid¬ 
erably.  “  I  don’t — I  don’t  like  you — and  you  know  it,  Mr. 
Pascoe!  You  are  always  tormenting  me;  and  I  had  rather 
never  see  one  sight  of  you  or  hear  your  voice — now!  ” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  29 

She  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  crying,  and  Captain  Tre- 
dennick  stood  in  confounded  silence  for  a  moment. 

“  Ye’re  kickin’  up  a  pretty  rigs  about  it,  sure  enough,” 
said  Mr.  Pascoe,  with  an  evil  look,  and  thrusting  his  hands 
deep  into  his  coat  pockets  ;  “  ye  might  speak  civilly,  like  a 
well-behaved  maid,  I  think.  Are  ’e  goin’  to  stand  here  any 
longer,  or  are  ’e  going  to  come  home  to  your  father’s  house?” 

“I  am  not  going  with  you,”  replied  Winnie,  choking  down 
her  sobs;  “  and  I  will  go  home  when  I  like,  and  stay  out  as 
long  as  I  like,  independently  of  you,  sir!  You  have  no 
authority  over  me!  ” 

“  Sir,”  said  Captain  Tredennick,  raising  his  hat  an  inch  or 
two,  and  dealing  Mr.  Pascoe  a  look  of  terrible  quarter-deck 
politeness,  “  I  will  see  Miss  Caerlyon  home,  if  you  please. 
I  overtook  her  on  the  road  and - ” 

“Ye  will,  will ’e?  ”  rejoined  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe,  turning 
bully  on  the  spot,  and  his  genteel  accent  falling  away  from 
his  Cornish  dialect  like  thin  stucco  on  a  plaster  facade. 
“  Then  I  thenk  ’e  had  better  not  let  the  Leftenant  nor  hes 
wife  see  their  daughter  walkin’  home  across  the  fields  at  the 
break  of  day  with  a  strange  spark  of  a  fellow!  She’d  pay 
dear  for  her  sweethearting  ef  they  did,  I  can  tell  ’e!  ” 

Winnie  never  uttered  word  or  cry  in  answer  to  the  coarse 
taunt,  but  she  shrank  as  if  a  mortal  blow  had  struck  her. 
Tightening  her  little  faded  shawl  convulsively  around  her, 
she  extended  her  hand  to  Captain  Tredennick,  without  dar¬ 
ing  to  lift  her  eyes. 

“  Good-bye,  sir — oh,  good-bye!  Thank  you  for  coming  so 
far.  Please  don’t  mind  him,”  she  muttered,  her  very  brows 
burning  in  an  agony  of  shame. 

“My  dear  Miss  Caerlyon,  stop  a  minute,  please,”  he  said, 
haughtily.  “  You  are  labouring  under  a  mistake,  Mr.  Pascoe. 
You  cannot  be  very  long  in  the  mine-office  in  Tolgooth,  sir, 
or  you  would  have  known  me,”  he  added,  suppressing  an 
explosion  of  quarter-deck  wrath  for  the*  sake  of  the  young 
girl  by  his  side.  “  My  name  is  Stephen  Tredennick,  of  Tre- 
garthen,  sir  ;  and,  as  I  said  just  now,  when  you  interrupted 
me,  I  overtook  Miss  Caerlyon  on  the  road  as  she  was  return¬ 
ing  from  my  aunt,  Madam  Vivian’s  house,  where  I  met  her 
yesterday  evening.” 

“  Oh,  indeed — Captain  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen!  Indeed, 
sir,  I  did  not  know,  I  am  sure,”  said  Mr.  Pascoe,  resuming 
his  refined  accent  with  an  effort,  and  smiling  and  rubbing 
the  palms  of  his  hands  with  an  air  of  sudden  fawning  polite- 


30 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


ness.  '  “  I  know  ye  by  report,  very  well  indeed,  sir — have 
heard  tell  of  ye  very  often,  Captain  Tredennick.  Long 
returned  from  your  last  voyage,  sir?  ” 

“  No,  sir — not  long,”  vouchsafed  Stephen  Tredennick, 
shortly;  “but  I  think  in  any  case  you  need  not  have  been 
afraid  that  this  young  lady  was  in  improper  company.” 

“  Well,  no,  indeed,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Pascoe,  smiling  again; 
“but  I  did  not  know — could  not  bring  to  my  mind  at  all,  sir 
— but  that  ’e  were  a  stranger;  and  a  young  maid  like  Miss 
Winnie  Caerlyon  can  not  be  too  particular,  sir,  ye  know.” 

He  had  edged  himself  up  to  Captain  Tredennick’s  side, 
and  was  beginning  to  chat  fluently,  with  an  evident  intention 
of  constituting  himself  a  third  in  the  party.  If  he  calcu¬ 
lated  on  the  sailor’s  easy  good-fellowship  and  pleasant  conde¬ 
scension,  he  was  fated  to  be  instantly  undeceived. 

“  Sir,”  said  the  Captain  of  the  Chittoor ,  halting  abruptly, 
and  surveying  Mr.  Pascoe  with  all  the  hauteur  of  the  proud 
Tredennicks  of  Tregarthen,  and  a  fresh  accession  of  the 
haughty  quarter-deck  politeness  to  a  presuming  inferior,  “  I 
will  take  care  of  the  young  lady  for  the  rest  of  the  way,  and 
will  wish  you  a  very  good-morning.” 

Mr.  Pascoe  muttered  a  response  rather  confusedly  and  sul¬ 
lenly,  and  stood  watching  the  pair  as  they  went  down  Tre¬ 
garthen  Hill. 

“Ye  saucy  young  madam!  I’ll  make  e’  hear  of  et  agen!  ” 
he  exclaimed  vindictively — and  resolutions  of  this  kind  Mr. 
Pascoe  was  not  wont  to  forget,  as  that  personage’s  numerous 
enemies  were  well  aware. 

Down  Tregarthen  Hill,  up  by  the  Head,  where  the  road 
skirted  the  ocean  cliffs,  past  Tolgooth  Mine,  and  down  by  the 
little  land-locked  bay,  where  the  Coastguard  station,  with  its 
small,  white,  clean,  bare-looking  habitations,  and  the  larger, 
whiter,  cleaner,  habitation  of  the  officer  in  command,  with  the 
flagstaff  *and  fluttering  Union  Jack  before  the  door,  were  all 
perched  high  up  on  the  sloping  brow  of  a  low  cliff  overlook¬ 
ing  the  deep  water  and  blue-pebbled  shore  of  the  little  beach 
below.  Winnie’s  escort  never  quitted  her  until  the  coloured 
bunting  fluttered  above  their  heads,  and  from  the  white  two- 
storeyed  house  at  hand,  with  dormer  windows  in  its  seaward 
gable,  came  the  echoes  of  the  voices  of  crying  children. 

“  Good-bye,  sir;  thank  you  very  much.”  Her  timid  hand 
just  touched  his,  and  the  downcast,  pained  girlish  face,  that 
had  not  been  raised  since  the  encounter  at  Tregarthen  gates, 
was  upturned  for  a  few  moments,  gazing  anxiously  into  his 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


31 

own.  “  I  would  ask  you  in,”  she  faltered,  “  but  I  fear  you 
would  not  be  comfortable.  I  hear  the  children  crying, 
and - ” 

“  Oh,  no,  thank  you,”  said  he  hastily — “  I  shall  have  much 
pleasure  in  calling  on  your  father  some  afternoon.  Good¬ 
bye — good-bye,  Winnie.” 

Her  thought  he  might  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  her 
thus;  they  were  not  strangers  now,  he  and  this  anxious, 
timid,  gentle,  passionate  little  woman.  Surely  he  might 
speak  to  her  as  to  a  dear  little  girl-friend!  Who  could  mis¬ 
understand  him,  except  one  like  that  underbred  fellow,  who 
said — said  they  were  “  sweethearting!”  Captain  Treden- 
nick  went  over  the  absurd  phrase  several  times,  and  laughed 
each  time,  as  he  walked  home — laughed  as  if  the  absurd 
idea  were  not  utterly  displeasing. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

“  Good-morning,  Tredennick.  I  hope  you  have  not  waited 
<or  breakfast  until  now?” 

The  French  pendule — an  animated  group  of  gilded  nymphs 
and  centaurs,  in  wild  conflict  apparently  for  possession  of  the 
dial-plate — had  just  struck  nine  “tings”  on  its  musical  little 
bell,  as  Madam  entered  the  prettily-furnished  breakfast-room, 
all  polished  maple-wood  and  soft  dove-coloured  hangings  and 
carpets,  relieved  with  touches  of  crimson  here  and  there. 
Madam  Vivian  had  no  notion  of  breakfasting  in  an  apart¬ 
ment,  the  shades  of  the  upholstery  of  which  might  destroy 
the  effect  of  her  favourite  morning-robe  of  silk-embroidered 
purple  cachemire  and  morning-cap  of  white  and  violet  crape. 

“Waited,  dear  aunt?  Of  course  I  have.” 

“Without  a  cup  of  coffee,  or  chocolate,  or  anything  after 
your  long  walk!  ”  exclaimed  Madam,  sitting  down  before  her 
silver  breakfast  equipage.  “  For  I  understand  from  Trew- 
hella,  my  maid,  that  you  have  actually  been  out  of  the  house 
since  daybreak.” 

“Yes,  I  have,”  said  Captain  Tredennick — mentally  adding, 
“I  wonder  how  Trewhella  knew!  ” 

“Where  did  you  walk?”  inquired  Madam.  “Give  me 
some  of  that  Strasburg^xxte,  please,  Stephen.  Did  you  go  to 
Tregarthen?” 


32 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“No,  I  did  not,”  replied  Stephen  Tredennick,  without 
adding  that  he  had  never  thought  of  it  until  he  had  returned 
to  the  door  of  Roseworthy  Hall.  “  By  the  way,  aunt,  I  saw 
your  little  friend  going  home  this  morning.” 

“Indeed,  Stephen,”  said  Madam,  and  a  rather  amused, 
malicious  smile  curved  her  lips.  “  Where  did  you  meet  her?  ” 

“  Oh,  on  the  road  by  the  Head,”  answered  her  nephew, 
silently  resuming  his  roll  and  Strasburg  pate . 

“And  you  escorted  her  safely  home,  I  hope,  with  your 
usual  thoughtful  consideration?  ” 

Stephen  Tredennick  could  not  quite  understand  the  refined 
banter  in  Madam’s  eyes  and  voice;  he  moved  slightly  on  his 
chair  and  dipped  his  bread  as  he  replied — 

“Yes — of  course.  That  is  a  wild,  lonely  road  fora  girl 
like  her  to  travel;  of  course  I  went  along  with  her  until  I 
saw  her  safe.” 

“  She  has  travelled  it  a  good  many  times  these  last  three 
jrears,”  said  Madam,  carelessly,  but  with  her  keen,  smiling 
eyes  fixed  on  her  nephew’s  face.  “  But  how  did  you  manage 
to  scrape  acquaintance  with  my  little  protegee,  Tredennick? 
Yon  only  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway  for  a  minute  last 
evening?” 

“  Oh,  yes,  I  did,”  explained  Captain  Tredennick,  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself.  “  I  went  down  to  the  ‘  lower  regions  ’ 
to  inquire  of  the  servants  if  the  poor  little  girl  had  gone 
nome  again  through  the  rain  and  the  wind,  and  then — last 
night,  I  mean — I  saw  her  in  the  housekeeper’s  room.  She 
appears  a  nice,  modest,  sensible  little  creature.” 

“Yes,  indeed,”  said  Mad:;m  agreeing  very  candidly  and 
earnestly,  her  smiling  gaze  becoming  more  penetrating — “  a 
nice  little  creature.  Poor  Winnie!  she  will  make  Mr.  Pas- 
coe  an  excellent  little  wife.” 

“Pascoe!  That  ill-tempered,  vulgar - ”  began  Stephen 

Tredennick,  in  some  excitement,  which  cooled  rather  sud¬ 
denly  when  Madam  again  queried — 

“  I  was  not  aware  that  you  knew  Mr.  Pascoe,  Stephen?” 

“  Oh,  ay — I  do,  though,  aunt,”  he  said,  somewhat  briefly; 
“and  I  do  not  like  him.  He  is  a  disagreeable,  presuming 
sort  of  fellow,  I  think.” 

“  He  is  a  very  worthy,  honest  person,”  rejoined  Madam, 
reprovingly,  “  and  much  attached  to  Winnie.  I  shall  be 
quite  glad  to  see  her  settled  so  comfortably,  poor  child. 
Pascoe  has  a  fair  salary  for  a  mine-purser,  and  a  neat  little 
house,  though  it  is  on  the  works.” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


33 


His  wife!  '  That  underbred,  insolent,  fox-faced  man’s 
wife!  To  live  in  the  bare,  square-built,  two-storey  house, 
with  its  few  small  windows  and  smartly  painted  hall-door, 
and  its  beautiful,  soul-inspiring  surroundings  of  dull-hued 
piles  of  rubbish  and  broken  ore-stone,  hideous  wooden  tarred 
sheds,  slime-pits,  and  creaking,  groaning,  shrieking,  crashing 
machinery!  Pascoe,  the  purser’s  wife — there  to  spend  her 
existence — that  pale,  pure-faced,  sorrowful  little  maiden,  with 
her  passionate  gray  eyes,  and  her  wealth  of  beautiful  silken 
tresses — the  wedded  wife  of  Thomas  Pascoe — his,  to  have 
and  to  hold,  for  ever! 

Stephen  Tredennick  glanced  at  his  aunt’s  face  to  discover 
if  she  was  in  earnest,  and  then  a  sudden  impulse  of  some¬ 
thing  like  passionate  anger  filled  his  heart.  Winnie  Caer- 
lyon  Pascoe’s  wife — never! 

He  was  very  near  saying  so  aloud,  but  restrained  himself 
to  say  instead,  very  quietly — 

“And  what  does  Miss  Winnie  herself  think  of  the  pros¬ 
pect?  ” 

“Think?  Oh,  I  don’t  believe  she  admires  him  much — he 
is  not  an  ideal  lover,  I  grant — but  what  matters  that?  ”  said 
Madam,  lightly  and  scofiingly.  “  Winnie  has  no  right  to 
indulge  in  any  of  that  girlish,  romantic  folly;  she  knows  that 
what  she  requires  in  marriage  is  an  honest  kind  husband,  who 
will  give  her  a  home  of  her  own,  with  food  to  eat  and 
clothes  to  wear — and  very  thankful  she  ought  to  be  to  get 
one.” 

The  tone,  words,  and  manner  all  jarred  on  Stephen  Tre¬ 
dennick — jarred  very  considerably,  although  it  was  in  only 
a  poor  little  stranger-maiden’s  interest. 

“  Well,  aunt,”  he  returned,  coldly  and  sarcastically,  in  man¬ 
ner  very  like  Madam’s  own,  “  if  marriage — which  poets,  and 
novelists,  and  artists,  and  those  kind  of  fools  rave  about  as 
‘wedded  bliss,’  as  ‘  crowning  the  love  and  honour  of  a  life,’ 
and  so  forth — be  after  all  a  mere  dry,  worldly  matter  of 
exchange  and  barter,  still  one  ought  to  make  the  best  ex¬ 
change,  and  barter  as  equally  as  possible.  Looking  at  the 
matter  from  a  commercial  point  of  view,  a  pretty  young  girl, 
with  a  fair  share  of  brains  and  social  attractions,  and  of 
decent  family,  might  barter  herself  for  something  better 
than  mere  clothes  and  food  given  to  her  by  a  very  ill- 
favoured  lubber  of  a  fellow  whom  she  detests.” 

A  ringing,  sarcastic  laugh  came  from  Madam  Yivian  as  he 
concluded. 

3 


34  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

u  Bravissimo,  Stephen!  I  begin  to  have  some  hope  of 
you!  You  are  growing  romantic!  ”  Then,  quite  suddenly, 
looking  into  the  coffee  urn  as  she  spoke,  Madam  asked  her 
third  searching  question,  “  How  do  you  know  that  she  de¬ 
tests  him,  Stephen?” 

“Because — have  you  not  just  said  that  she  does  not  admire 
him?  I  am  sure  no  girl  could!  ” 

This  was  an  evasion  with  a  vengeance;  and  Captain  Tre- 
dennick  felt  ashamed  of  it,  and  coughed  two  or  three  times, 
and  resolved  to  tell  Madam  the  whole  story  of  the  morning. 
It  was  odd  the  disinclination  that  came  over  him  to  deliver 
that  short  recital  in  the  cold,  clear  morning  sunlight,  with 
Madam  Vivian’s  keen  eyes  watching  his  face — about  his  in* 
vitation,  and  Winnie’s  refusal  to  go  into  Tregarthen  House — 
about  the  tangled  tress  of  hair,  his  request  for  a  keepsake, 
Pascoe’s  coarse  taunt,  and  all — ending  with  poor  Winnie’s 
one  passionate  allusion,  as  they  went  down  the  hill  together, 
to  the  scene  of  which  his  delicate  sympathy  for  her  mortifi¬ 
cation  would  not  suffer  him  to  make  any  mention.  “You 
must  wonder  at  me  and  my  friends,  sir,”  she  had  said  bitterly; 
“  it  is  my  misfortune  that  that  man  can  claim  my  relatives 
as  his,  though  he  is  neither  relative  nor  friend  of  mine.  I  hate 
him,  Captain  Tredennick!  They  want  me  to  like  him,  and 
that  makes  me  hate  him  the  more!  ”  Her  words  were  rather 
unintelligible  at  the  moment,  but  they  were  clear  enough 
now.  Madam  herself  changed  the  subject,  however. 

“Do  you  really  consider  the  girl  pretty?”  she  asked,  with 
a  smile  of  compassion  for  his  utter  ignorance  of  the  requisites 
of  beauty.  “Poor  little  Winnie!  Why,  the  child  has  not 
a  single  good  feature  in  her  face;  certainly  her  eyes  are  nice 
and  bright,  but  so  are  most  young  persons’.” 

“Nice  and  bright!”  those  pleading,  sad,  true,  deep  dark 
eyes,  with  a  world  of  feeling  in  their  light  and  shadow!  He 
did  not  understand  them  thus  perhaps,  but  he  felt,  as  a  noble 
intelligent  nature  would,  the  power  and  worth  and  truth  of 
the  soul  which  shone  through  them,  and  had  noted  in  them — 
which  Madam  Vivian  doubtless  never  had — the  fire  of  pas¬ 
sion  and  glow  of  beauty  created  by  that  soul’s  strongest 
emotions. 

“  She  has  beautiful  hair  though,”  Madam  added  presently. 

Stephen  Tredennick,  by  a  method  best  known  to  himself, 
by  this  time  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  better 
leave  the  beauty  of  Winnie’s  beautiful  hair  alone. 

“Has  she?  ”  said  he,  coolly  buttering  some  toast. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  35 

A  flash  of  mingled  amusement,  vexation,  and  contempt 
crossed  Madam  Vivian’s  handsome,  haughty  face.  Through 
the  medium  of  Miss  Trewhella’s  glib  tongue,  she  knew  that 
on  the  .evening  before  he  had  both  openly  and  warmly  ex¬ 
pressed  his.  admiration  of  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  one  gift  of 
undeniable  loveliness;  and  now  he  pretended  not  to  have 
noticed  it! 

“  Men  are  all  the  same,  full  of  sly  double-dealing  and  petty 
falseness,  where  women  are  concerned,”  thought  the  fair 
habituee  of  ball-rooms  during  five-and-twenty  years*  with  a 
curl  of  her  lip.  Then,  with  something  like  a  pang  of  alarm 
or  annoyance,  she  told  herself,  “  He  says  nothing,  because  he 
admires  it  so  much — admires  her  too!  ”  Immediately  she 
recollected  herself,  smoothed  her  brow,  and  laughed  at  her 
own  folly.  “  I  am  too  absurd,”  she  said,  mentally.  “  I  think 
I  have  been  dreaming.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

“ Winnie,  are  the  children  on  the  rocks?”  cried  a  sharp 
feminine  voice. 

“They  are^  mamma.” 

“  Can  you  see  them  all  there?  ”  questioned  the  first  speaker, 
doubtingly. 

“  I  can,  mamma.” 

“Where’s  baby?”  was  the  ready  interrogatory. 

“  She  is  here,  mamma,  creeping  about.” 

“Take  her  up  then.  I  won’t  have  her  second  frock  dirtied 
to-day.  Take  her  up,  and  walk  about  with  her.  Letting  the 
child  make  herself  in  a  mess  like  that,  just  for  laziness  to 
take  her  up  in  your  arms!  ” 

“  She  was  crying  so,  mamma,  when  I  carried  her  about,  and 
she  is  quite  quiet  now.” 

“I  don’t  care  whether  she  is  quiet  or  not.  You  take  the 
child  up,  and  walk  about  with  her  and  amuse  her.” 

All  this  was  screamed — in  that  soothingly-delightful,  shrill, 
rasping  voice  which  so  many  British  matrons  affect  when  in 
the  shelter  of  their  household — from  an  upper  window  in  the 
Coastguard  officer’s  house,  for  the  benefit  of  Winnie  Caer- 
lyon,  as  she  leant  over  the  little  whitewashed  wall  that  en¬ 
closed  the  gravelled  space  in  front,  and  for  the  benefit  of  any 
chance  loiterer  who  might  be  at  hand. 


36 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MOBNING. 


There  was  none  apparently — nothing  to  listen  to  Mrs. 
Gaerlyon’s  high-pitched,  tuneless  voice,  as  she  screamed 
forth  her  mandates,  but  the  white  sea-gulls,  to  whom  perhaps 
she  unconsciously  imparted  lessons  in  vocal  music,  as  they 
ceaselessly  swooped,  and  dived,  and  soared,  and  shrieked 
around  the  craggy  cliffs. 

Winnie,  aroused  from  her  lounge  by  the  low  white  breast¬ 
work  that  hemmed  in  the  little  yard  or  terrace  before  the 
house,  where  she  had  been  mechanically  watching  the  sea¬ 
birds’  flight,  the  tossing  of  the  green,  froth-crested  waves  in 
the  cold  March  sunlight,  and  the  flitting  lights  and  cloud 
shadows  out  on  the  great  rippling  expanse  of  ocean  before 
her — Winnie’s  only  relaxation,  amusement,  or  pleasure  in 
this  world,  but  one — that  one  her  tri-weekly  visit  to  Rose¬ 
worthy — took  up  the  baby  obediently,  who  resisted,  as  she 
did  so,  with  loud  peevish  cries;  but  perseverance  in  kisses 
and  caresses,  and  showing  the  gulls,  and  the  “  pretty,  pretty 
sea,”  and  the  “beautiful  little  ships,”  stilled  baby’s  lamenta¬ 
tions  at  length,  and  she  sat  up  in  her  sister’s  arms,  in  her 
little  blue  hood  and  cloak,  like  “  a  beautiful  little  dearie,”  as 
Winnie  said. 

This  child — the  youngest  and  frailest  and  sickliest  of  the 
seven — it  had  almost  entirely  fallen  to  Winnie’s  lot  to  nurse 
and  care  for  by  day  and  night,  from  her  stepmother’s  pro¬ 
longed  indisposition  at  her  birth  and  other  causes.  Winnie 
had  “got  the  way”  of  managing,  feeding,  and  soothing  the 
little  one  better  than  any  one  else;  hence  washing,  dressing, 
nursing,  and  putting  to  sleep  were  all  left  entirely  to  the 
patient  loving  hands  that  never  shook  or  slapped  the  wailing, 
fretful  little  creature — as  its  mother  did  in  a  fit  of  temper 
sometimes — that  were  always  ready  by  day  or  night  to  “  take 
baby.” 

The  young  girl’s  rest,  leisure,  amusements,  were  all  cur¬ 
tailed  or  cut  off  on  account  of  “  baby  ” — poor  little  fifteen- 
months-old  Louie — who  turned  her  piteous  little  face  and  out¬ 
stretched  arms  away  from  every  one  to  “  Eenie.”  Sister 
“  Eenie  ”  sacrificed  herself  ceaselessly  and  patiently,  because 
of  the  love,  the  strong,  tender,  incipient  mother-love,  that 
rose  above  all  self-consideration  in  her  true  womanly  nature, 
for  the  helpless  babe  dependent  on  t  er. 

“Winifred!  Winifred,  I  say!” 

She  hastened  back  from  her  wearisome  parade,  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  to  the  upper  window  and  its  screamed 
mandates  a  second  time. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


37 


“Take  the  baby  down  on  the  rocks  with  the  rest.  You 
shouldn’t  leave  those  children  down  there  so  long  by  them¬ 
selves!  And  mind  you  don’t  let  them  wet  their  feet!” 

“  Yes,  mamma.” 

“  Has  Sarah  Matilda  got  her  brown  jacket  on?” 

“Yes,  mamma.” 

“Well,  mind  you  don’t  let  Tom  go  near  the  water — his 
throat’s  as  sore  as  possible.  And,  Winifred — Winifred,  I 
say! — wait  until  I  have  done  speaking,  will  you!  I  never 
saw  such  a  heedless  maid!” 

“  I  wasn’t  going,  mamma.” 

“Mind  you  don’t  let  Caroline  touch  that  nasty  sea-weed, 
or  those  shell-fish  sne’s  always  eating — tell  her  she  shall 
have  Gregory’s  powder  if  she  does,  and  I’ll  engage  she.’ll 
let  ’em  be  fast  enough!” 

“  Yes,  mamma.” 

Winifred  hurried  away  as  she  spoke,  and,  though  she 
heard  a  renewed  scream  of  “Winifred — Winifred,  Isay!” 
when  she  was  half-way  down  the  cliff-path,  she  only  descended 
the  faster,  until  she  reached  the  pebbly  shore,  panting, 
flushed,  and  nervous. 

“  1  could  not  go  back  then,”  she  said  in  excuse  to  herself 
for  her  slight  disobedience,  if  such  it  were.  “  It  was  better 
to  come  down  and  leave  baby  safely  here.  I  couldn’t  turn 
just  then — mamma  knows  that;  but  I  can’t  go  up  now.  Oh, 
I  can’t — I  can’t!  He  heard  her — I  am  sure  he  did!  I  saw 
his  hat  just  as  she  was  shouting  about  Tom!  Oh,  I  wish  she 
hadn’t!  What  matter  though — what  matter?  How  stupid 
I  am!  He  has  only  come  to  see  father.  He  said  he  would 
yesterday  morning — and  I  have  my  old  frock  on — it’s  not 
very  bad  though — and  this  shabby  old  shawl!  But  what  am 
I  talking  of?  He’s  not  come  to  see  me — he  won’t  see  me — 
he  shan’t  see  me — there!”  and  Winnie  laid  her  face  down 
on  the  baby’s  blue  hood,  in  a  momentary  quiver  of  disappoint¬ 
ment,  with  a  long  sigh,  and  “  Oh,  dear,  dear!  ”  wrung  from 
the  keenness  of  some  hidden  pang  of  hope,  or  grief,  or 
longing. 

The  next  moment  the  ejaculation  was  repeated  aloud, 
prompted  by  startled  surprise,  fear  and  pleasure  combined. 
The  “hat”  she  had  seen  on  the  terrace  above,  and  fled  from, 
was  within  a  yard  of  her,  having  followed  in  her  footsteps 
down  the  cliff  path. 

“  I  never  knew  a  mermaid  could  run  down  steep  rocky 
paths — carrying  a  baby  too — so  fast  before.” 


38 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


“  Oh,  Captain  Tredennick,  you  frightened  me  so!  ”  she 
said,  her  heart  beating  tumultuously,  although  the  slight 
shock  of  his  unexpected  presence  had  lasted  but  a  moment. 
“  My  father  is  up  on  the  cliffs  near  the  look-out,  I  think,”  she 
continued,  confusedly;  “  perhaps  you  thought  he  was  down 
here?  ” 

“  Oh,  no,  I  did  not,”  answered  Stephen  Tredennick,  smil¬ 
ing;  “  I  came  down  after  you.  I  don’t  know  your  father, 
but  I  know  you;  you  must  introduce  me  when  we  go  up,  if 
you  please.” 

He  seated  himself  on  a  stone  beside  her,  half  amused  at 
and  half  admiring  the  shy  flush  on  Winnie’s  demure  little 
face,  the  evident  fluttered  girlish  embarrassment — poor  Win¬ 
nie  was  expecting  the  interruption  of  Sarah  Matilda  and 
Caroline,  with  their  pinafores  full  of  wet  sea-weed  and  live 
crabs,  every  moment — struggling  with  a  certain  gentle,  old- 
fashioned,  sweet  little  womanliness  that  seemed  habitual  to 
her,  as  she  carefully  spread  her  old  shawl  and  placed  thereon 
the  baby  that  was  so  alarmingly  quiet,  gravely  stooping  to 
give  her  a  soothing  pat,  or  supply  her  with  playthings  in  the 
shape  of  coloured  pebbles  and  shells,  while  she  conversed 
with  Captain  Tredennick,  delighting  him  with  her  girlish 
simplicity  of  intelligence,  without  a  fear  or  an  arrierepensee 
that  might  have  disturbed  the  communications  of  a  worldly- 
wise  woman. 

Gravely  and  unaffectedly,  in  her  ignorance  of  the  sneered- 
at  existence  of  blue-stockingism,  she  gave  him  certain  learned 
statements  and  statistics — quite  correctly  too — concerning 
some  of  the  things  which  surrounded  her  daily  life — the 
depth  of  water  in  the  offing,  the  height  of  the  cliffs  and  their 
gigantic  formation,  the  force  and  prevalence  of  the  winds, 
and  the  whereabouts  of  sunken  reefs  and  rocks  and  danger¬ 
ous  bars. 

“  I  hear  my  father  and  the  men  talking,  you  know,”  she 
explained;  “  and  then  I  remember  things  very  well.” 

Earnestly,  in  her  glowing  enthusiasm  and  pleasure  at  hav¬ 
ing  found  one  whose  thoughts  were  responsive  to  her  own, 
and  in  her  innocence  of  false  sentimentality,  the  little  girl  in 
the  shabby  blue  gingham  dress  talked  to  Captain  Tredennick, 
with  her  dark-gray  eyes  sparkling,  the  colour  deepening  on 
her  thin,  pale  cheek,  and  her  nervous  slender  fingers  clasping 
and  unclasping  in  eager  impulsiveness. 

She  spoke  as  she  felt,  and  Stephen  Tredennick  listened 
with  pleased  surprise  and  deepening  interest — more  for  the 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


39 


speaker  than  her  words — whilst  Winnie  Caerlyon  talked  to 
him  of  the  beauty  of  the  sea,  of  the  glories  of  silvery  moon- 
risings  across  the  dark  rippling  ocean-breast,  of  the  more 
solemn  glories  of  the  sleeping  dawn,  lying  in  the  rosy  flush 
of  the  brightening  east;  of  summer  days,  when  the  waters  lay 
spread  out  to  the  purple  horizon  in  a  burnished,  blinding, 
dazzling  mirror  of  pellucid  blue,  darkened  here  and  there  in¬ 
to  great  shadowed  patches  of  olive-green  from  some  fish-shoal 
gliding  beneath  the  unruffled  surface;  of  dark  winter  days, 
when  the  sea  was  a  dreary  leaden-hued  expanse,  all  flecked 
with  foam-crests  and  streamers  of  froth,  as  the  wild  waves 
rushed  on  like  shrieking  steeds  to  battle,  and  crashed  with  all 
their  artillery  of  force,  and  sound  against  the  jagged  black 
rocks  of  Tregarthen  Reef,  and  the  great  dark  precipitous  face 
of  Tregarthen  Head,  scarcely  a  mile  beyond  them,  and  rear¬ 
ing  itself  in  profile  against  the  blue  sky. 

Nothing  had  escaped  the  artistic  perception  of  those  glow¬ 
ing,  passionate  dark-gray  eyes  beneath  the  faded  black-straw 
hat,  with  such  a  pitiful  scrap  of  velvet  trimming  around  its 
rusty  crown.  Amber  sunshine  gleaming  through  the  trans¬ 
lucent  green  of  the  great  upraised  billows,  changeful  opal 
lights  on  the  shimmering  waves,  glittering  phosphorescent 
trails  and  sparkles  in  dark  sultry  summer  midnights,  white 
and  crimson  and  purple  lengths  of  trailing  seaweeds,  and 
snowy  shells  tangled  in  emerald  tresses  of  ocean-grass — she 
knew  them  all. 

“You  ought  to  have  been  a  mermaid,  Miss  Caerlyon,” 
Stephen  Tredennick  said,  with  a  smile  in  his  eyes;  “you 
would  have  loved  your  ocean  home  so  dearly.  Perhaps  you 
are  a  mermaid — I  am  half  doubtful  about  it.  Perhaps  you 
will  begin  a  siren-song  presently,  and  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
follow,  under  the  spell  of  your  voice,  until  I  sink  down  in  the 
deep  green  water  out  there,  and  never  be  seen  any  more  of 
men!  ” 

But  all  at  once,  as  he  spoke,  the  earnest  little  enthusiast 
with  the  artist  eyes  and  the  poetic  words  changed  into  a  shy 
timid  little  girl  in  a  shabby  frock.  Wjmnie  remembered  the 
thinness  and  brownness  of  her  impulsive  nervous  hands,  and 
folded  them  closely  to  try  to  hide  them  from  Captain  Tre- 
dennick’s  keen  blue-gray  smiling  eyes. 

“  There  would  be  no  fear  of  that,”  she  said,  rather  coldly 
and  constrainedly — “  you  would  not  come,  sir.” 

“  But  I  should  though!  ”  he  persisted,  the  smile  deepening, 
and  a  curious  sensation  coming  over  him  of  his  heart  quick- 


40 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 


erring  its  beatings,  as  he  noticed  that  the  flush  on  Winnie’s 
pure  little  face  grew  swiftly  crimson  beneath  his  gaze. ' 

The  March  afternoon  was  in  all  its  brightness  when  they 
met — the  March  sunlight  was  shining  clear  and  strong  from 
the  west  when  they  rose  to  part.  Not  much  more  than  an 
hour  had  they  sat  there  together;  yet  it  is  probable  that,  if 
Stephen  Tredennick  had  been  offered  the  value  of  one  of  the 
rich  Oriental  cargoes  of  his  own  Chittoor  to  tell  what  it  was 
that  he  had  talked  about  to  Winnie  Caerlyon,  whilst  they  sat 
side  by  side  in  the  sheltering  shadow  of  the  great  cliffs  be¬ 
hind  them,  and  at  their  feet 

the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers  thrown, 

he  would  have  found  the  task  nearly  an  impossibility. 

He  had  spoken  about  himself  a  little,  about  herself  a  good 
deal,  about  nothing  in  particular  most  of  all.  He  had  found 
it  pleasant  to  sit  there,  beside  the  pretty  slim  little  womanly 
figure  in  the  shabby  dress  and  with  the  rusty  old  hat,  with 
fretted  wreaths  and  broad  soft  plaits  of  rich  golden-brown 
hair  peeping  from  beneath  it — curiously  pleasant  indeed,  pos¬ 
sessing  for  him  that  depth  of  interest  and  power  of  attraction 
that  quickened  so  strangely  the  beating  of  the  strong  warm 
heart  in  his  broad  sailor-breast. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  sit  there,  seeing  his  own  handsome  sun- 
browned  face  reflected  in  the  depths  of  Winnie  Caerlyon’s 
beautiful  passionate  clear  dark  eyes — they  deserved  all  those 
epithets  he  decided — continuing  to  take  this  peculiar  interest 
in  the  girlish  pale  face  under  the  old  black  hat — pleasant  to 
sit  there  listening  to  her  voice  mingling  with  the  murmuring 
symphony  of  the  waves. 

The  pleasure  of  it  prompted  him  to  sit  there  and  talk  to 
her — pleasure,  kindness,  liking,  pity,  admiration,  prompted 
him  to  sit  there,  shutting  out,  morally  and  physically,  all' the 
world  beside  from  her  sight,  save  the  monotonous  ripple  of 
the  great  ocean,  and#  Stephen  Tredennick’s  smile,  Stephen 
Tredennick’s  handsome  face,  his  five  feet  eleven  of  masculine 
height  and  strength,  the  tones  of  his  kindly  courteous  voice, 
the  touch  of  his  warm  strong  hand. 

Yes;  kindness,  pity,  admiration.  He  liked  her  so  much — 
gentle,  loving,  sympathetic  girl;  he  pitied  her  so  much — poor 
little  shabby,  neglected,  lonely,  motherless  Winnie;  admired 
her  so  much — clever,  intelligent,  odd  little  creature,  with  the 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  41 

beautiful  eyes  and  hair,  and  wistful  little  white  face.  Poor 
little  Winnie — Pascoe  the  purser’s  wife — in  the  future! 

And  she? 

Her  tender,  yearning  heart,  grown  womanly  almost  before 
its  time  in  the  intensity  of  her  fervent  imagination,  her  quick 
intelligence,  her  gifted  brain,  had  garnered  up  a  passionate 
wealth  of  love  which  yearningly  sought  for  an  outlet  in  the 
bare,  chill  existence  of  a  hard,  unlovely,  work-a-day,  common¬ 
place  life,  ignoble  in  all  save  self-sacrifice;  and  now  the  master- 
hand — unknown,  undreamt  of  until  it  came — had  come,  and 
the  magic  of  its  touch  had  turned  the  master-key  and  unlocked 
the  garnered  treasure-^-at  once — for  ever. 

The  passionate,  girlish  heart,  in  its  wild,  strong  faith,  its 
quick  impulses,  its  unreasoning  instinct,  had  sprung  towards 
him  with  the  kindling  flame  of  passionate  grateful  liking  in 
that  first  hour  of  their  meeting,  when  he  had  kindly  thought 
of  the  forlorn  little  stranger’s  comfort,  kindly  troubled  him¬ 
self  concerning  her,  smiled  on  her  as  she  thought  none  other 
ever  had,  tenderly  touched  her  hand,  warmly  praised  her  one 
gift  of  rare  beauty;  in  shy,  warm  regard  and  tremulous  admi¬ 
ration  when  they  next  met,  and  he  was  kinder,  pleasanter, 
more  thoughtful  and  courteous  even  than  before — when  the 
strange  delight  of  his  presence  bewilderingly  charmed  away 
all  the  cold  and  loneliness  and  dreariness  of  that  cold,  dreary 
walk  in  the  wild  March  morning — that  walk  that  had  seemed 
in  her  remembrance  since  to  lie  through  an  enchanted  land, 
until  the  rude  interruption  came  and  she  trembled  in  fear — 
the  new.  strange  fear — of  her  uncouth  lover’s  jealousy. 

The  purser  had  often  hinted  before,  to  her  burning  dis¬ 
gust  and  vexation,  that  the  real  reason  of  her  exceeding  desire 
to  spend  so  much  of  her  time  at  Roseworthy  was  that  she 
might  “  set  her  cap  at  Madam’s  nephew;  ”  and  this  before 
she  had  much  more  than  heard  of  the  probable  return  of 
that  stranger  relative  of  her  patroness,  Tredennick  of  Tre- 
garthen. 

The  terror  of  the  coarse  words,  of  the  coarser  insinuations 
that  might  follow  any  avowal  of  acquaintanceship  with 
Captain  Tredennick,  had  haunted  her  from  the  first  mo¬ 
ment — poor,  sensitive,  unfriended  girl! — and  mingled  dis- 
tractingly  with  the  timid,  reverential  regard  and  admiration 
that  had  taken  such  deep  root  in  her  fond,  faithful  heart — 
such  deep  root  that,  all  unknown  to  herself  (for  such  knowl¬ 
edge  is  apt  to  linger,  unless  forced  on  self-recognition)  it 
had  sprung  up  fair  and  strong,  and  its  tenderness  and 


42 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING  . 


purity  and  simple  sweetness  had  blossomed  into  love.  In 
the  agony  of  being  humbled  and  mortified  before  Stephen 
Tredennick,  poor  Winnie  became  conscious  of  the  birth  of 
her  love. 

If  she  had  seen  him  no  more,  the  one  short  glimpse  into 
the  Eden  of  youth  might  have  faded  from  her  memory  as 
time  passed  on;  but  thus  it  was  appointed.  The  goblet  of 
life  is  held  to  each  lip;  we  must  each  drink  as  it  passes. 
Deeply  or  slightly,  all  must  drink  of  that  bitter  cup — 

Filled  with  waters  that  upstart 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 

By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste. 

For  “he  who  has  not  learned  to  know” — the  depth  and 
the  darkness  of  the  cup  of  life’s  sorrow — “  he  has  not  learned 
to  live.” 

Stephen  Tredennick  did  not  know — how  should  he?  Had 
he  known — could  he  have  seen  the  end  from  the  beginning — 
he,  the  brave,  tender-hearted  sailor,  the  kind,  wise,  generous 
man,  the  honest  chivalrous  gentleman,  would  have  thought  it 
as  right  and  kind  and  wise  in  him  to  take  innocent,  lonely, 
friendless  young  Winnie  Caerlyon  in  his  arms,  and  lay  her 
under  the  cold  sea-waves  in  a  deep  ocean  grave,  as  to  follow 
the  pleasant  impulse  towards  her  society  on  this  sunlit  March 
afternoon,  to  seek  her  presence  down  on  the  quiet  beach  by 
the  murmuring  waves,  to  talk  winningly,  kindly,  tenderly  to 
her  in  his  deep  pity  and  warm  liking,  to  look  into  the  pure 
depths  of  her  passionate  eyes,  to  softly  touch  her  little  thin 
work-worn  hand,  and  smile  at  the  tremulous  flushes  on  her 
ingenuous  emotional  face.  He  was  not  selfish — kind,  gener¬ 
ous  Stephen  Tredennick — whom  his  sailors  loved  as  a  com¬ 
mander  who  considered  his  men’s  welfare  as  ever  prior  to  his 
own  comfort;  but  this  time  he  had  forgotten  to  consider  the 
probable  cost  of  what  was  to  him  a  rare  gratification,  a  hith¬ 
erto  unexperienced  enjoyment,  as  he  thought  afterwards, 
laughing  at  himself  for  the  romantic  folly  of  the  thought — 

“  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea,' 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning,  yet  tender.” 

A  pleasure,  a  gratification,  perhaps  something  more  it  was 
to  him,  who  would  not  wittingly  have  injured  one  hair  of 
the  fair  young  head.  But,  ignorantly — perhaps  thoughtlessly 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  43 

— his  presence  had  fallen  in  a  shadow  of  darkness  on 
Winnie  Caerlyon’s  young  womanhood,  and  his  hand  had 
made  rough  with  cruel  roughness  the  lonely  path  her  weary 
feet  should  so  patiently  tread. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

“  If  you  will  stop  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  us,  Captain 
Tredennick,  we  shall  be  very  happy  to  have  your  company, 
sir.” 

Lieutenant  Caerlyon  proffered  the  invitation  himself,  after 
sundry  appealing  glances  and  vain  waiting  for  the  lady  of  the 
house  to  perform  the  ceremony. 

But  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Anne  Caerlyon,  with  the  exquisite 
good-breeding  she  displayed  whenever  she  wished  to  punish 
her  luckless  husband — who,  unfortunately  for  himself,  hap¬ 
pened  to  be  a  gentleman  by  birth  and  profession — sat  at  the 
fire,  dividing  her  attention  between  some  woollen  socks 
which  she  had  drying  on  the  fender  and  a  baby’s  flannel  pet¬ 
ticoat  which  she  was  making,  ignoring  guest  and  husband 
alike  after  the  first  brief  introduction,  and  feigning  not  to 
hear  or  notice  her  husband’s  words,  although  her  high-col¬ 
oured,  sharp-featured,  shrewishly-handsome  face  took  a 
deeper  tinge  from  vexation. 

Winnie  listened  whilst  her  father  spoke,  and  thought  with 
mingled  dismay  and  despair  of  that  evening  meal  of  which 
Captain  Tredennick  was  invited  to  partake — of  the  seven 
children  clamorous  for  bread-and-butter — of  Tommy’s  invet¬ 
erate  habit  of  choking  himself  with  his  tea,  and  having  to 
be  led  from  the  table  in  a  paroxysm  of  gasps,  and  cries,  and 
coughs,  and  tears — of  Caroline’s  tendency  to  cram  her  mouth 
to  a  painful  state  of  distension  with  buttered  barley-scone — 
of  the  coarse  table-cloth,  the  cheap,  ill-flavoured  tea,  and  her 
step-mother’s  uttei  neglect  of  all  the  etiquette  of  a  hostess — 
and — worst,  most  dreadful  of  all— of  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe’s 
probable  “  drop  in  ”  visit,  and  his  and  her  step-mother’s — 
whose  cousin  he  was — holding  forth  for  an  unlimited  period 
of  time,  in  their  sharp,  unrefined,  high-pitched  voices  and 
strong  provincial  accent — quite  undeterred  by  the  presence 
of  a  stranger — on  the  domestic  affairs  of  all  their  numerous 
relations. 


44 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  Mamma  is  sure  to  begin  about  her  aunt  Mary’s  extrava¬ 
gance,  and  her  cousin  Bella’s  ‘  young  man,’  ”  Winnie  said  to 
herself,  her  cheeks  burning  at  the  prospect  before  her; 
“  and  the  best  milk-jug  is  broken,  and  we  have  no  lump 
sugar  in  the  house.” 

But  Winnie’s  misery  for  the  time  being  was  terminated  by 
Captain  Tredennick’s  polite  refusal  of  the  invitation. 

“  You  know,  Miss  Caerlyon,”  said  he,  with  a  smile,  “  my 
aunt  dines  late  and  I  dare  not  absent  myself.” 

“  Oh,  I  know,”  responded  Winnie,  colouring  and  smiling. 
“  Besides,  Captain  Tredennick,  we  could  not  expect  you  to 
care  for  tea  just  at  your  dinner-hour.” 

Mrs.  Caerlyon  turned  sharply  around,  disclosing  the  flannel 
petticoat  and  stockings  to  full  view — the  angry  pink  flush  on 
her  cheeks  rising  to  her  temples,  and  her  light,  hard-looking 
brown  eyes  sparkling  with  displeasure. 

“  I  think,  Winiford,”  she  said — she  called  her  Winiford 
very  often  when  she  was  vexed — “  you  might  allow  Cappun 
Tredennick  to  choose  whether  he  would  stay  for  tea  with  us 
or  not.  We  shall  be  very  pleased  to  have  his  company  if  he 
cares  to  stay;  and,  if  not,  why,  we  must  do  without  him.” 

And  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  as  she  spoke,  flung  the  flannel  on  one 
side,  and,  rolling  the  pairs  of  stockings  into  woollen  balls, 
flung  them  with  a  loud  “thud”  one  after  the  other  into  a 
basket,  by  way  of  emphasising  her  final  clause. 

“Not  this  evening,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Caerlyon,”  said  Cap¬ 
tain  Tredennick,  pleasantly;  “  I  may  come  in  some  other 
afternoon,  when  I  have  given  Madam  notice  that  she  is  not 
to  expect  me  home  at  six.” 

Lieutenant  Caerlyon  responded — 

“Very  well,  Captain  Tredennick — we  shall  all  be  most 
happy  to  see  you,  I  am  sure.” 

Mrs.  Caerlyon  said  nothing,  but  pelted  the  stocking-balls 
harder,  if  possible,  arching  her  light  eye-brows,  and  pursing 
her  mouth  with  an  air  of  what  she  considered  to  be  cold 
hauteur . 

“You  had  better  see  after  the  kettle,  Winiford,  and  cut 
the  bread-and-butter  for  the  children;  the  maid  can’t  be  back 
from  Thomas’s  yet  this  half  hour,”  she  said  at  length,  in  an 
elaborate  manner,  ignoring  Captain  Tredennick’s  presence, 
and  giving  him  at  the  same  time  a  broad  hint  to  hasten  his 
departure. 

“  Good-evening,  Mrs,  Caerlyon,”  he  said  with  a  slight  bow. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  45 

“  Oh,”  she  cried,  turning  round  from  the  cupboard — “  oh, 
good  evening,  Cappun  Tredennick.” 

She  was  ignorant  enough,  in  spite  of  her  cold  hauteur ,  to 
expect  that  her  strange  male  visitor  would  offer  her,  his  lady 
hostess,  his  hand  to  be  shaken  in  farewell,  after  the  custom 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe,  Mr.  John  Williams,  Mr.  Edward 
Johns,  and  the  other  gentlemen  of  her  previous  acquaintance. 
The  slight  bow  and  cold  smile — very  slight,  very  cold,  it 
must  be  confessed — although  no  breaches  of  etiquette,  were 
to  Mrs.  Caerlyon  nothing  less  than  a  flagrant  insult. 

“  And  John  Caerlyon  to  stand  by  and  see  his  wife  slighted 
in  her  own  house  in  that  manner!  Wait  until  she  talked  to 
him!  Bringing  liis  grand,  stuck-up  visitors  in  there  and  in¬ 
viting  them  to  tea;  and  Miss  Winnie,  with  her  airs  and  her 
impudence,  making  little  of  her  father’s  house  and  her 
father’s  table  before  her  fine  Madam  Vivian’s  nephew!  It 
was  nothing  from  morning  till  night,  with  that  gad-about  of 
a  maid,  but  ‘Madam  Vivian,’  and  Madam  Vivian’s  style  and 
splendour.  Never  mind,  but  she  would  put  an  end  to  that 
some  day!  Making  the  girl  as  empty-headed  and  idle  and 
stuck-up  as  she  could  be!  ” 

The  narrow-minded  woman’s  petty  jealousy  against  her 
step-daughter’s  strivings  and  longings  after  some  of  the 
beauty  and  grace  of  existence  had  not  half  exhausted  itself, 
as  she  stood  there  angrily  muttering  her  ire  against  “  stuck- 
up  ”  people  into  the  sugar-jar  and  tea-caddy  in  the  cupboard, 
whilst  Captain  Tredennick  and  her  husband  stood  talking  on 
the  doc. step  outside,  when  she  heard  a  familiar  voice  greet¬ 
ing  them,  a  stamp  and  rush  of  boots  on  the  door-mat,  and 
“Ha!  evening,  ’Lezabeth,”  announced  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe’s 
unceremonious  entrance. 

“  Evening,  Thomas,”  said  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  beginning  to  lay 
the  table  with  a  noisy  clink  and  clatter,  intended  as  a  final 
hint  to  Captain  Tredennick — “standing  about  there,”  as  she 
phrased  it,  in  her  displeasure — as  well  as  a  token  of  hospi¬ 
tality  wherewith  to  cheer  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe’s  hungry  inner 
man. 

He  was  apt  to  be  hungry  after  his  one  o’clock  dinner  of 
“  pasty  ”  or  pork-pie,  and  relished  with  an  exceeding  appetite 
“  cousin  ’Lezabeth’s  ”  hot-buttered  barley-scones,  with  occa¬ 
sional  treats  of  “  heavy-cake,”  or  sweet  saffron-cake,  at  sir 
’clock,  when  the  work-bell  had  rung  and  the  mine-work  or* 
the  upper  earth  at  least  was  over  for  the  night. 

Be  it.  understood,  however,  amongst  the  honorable  ones  oft 


46  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 

the  earth,  that  Mr.  Pascoe  had  no  intention  of  meanly  living 
upon  his  cousin’s  substance  as  he  would  have  expressed  it — 
of  thus  devouring  “  cousin  ’Lezabeth’s  ”  barley-scones  and 
“heavy-cake,”  and  libations  of  the  peculiar  fluid  which  she 
designated  “  tea,”  without  intending  to  make  her  some  return. 
Away  with  such  a  base  idea!  Mr.  Pascoe  would  have  indig¬ 
nantly  scouted  it.  His  “  cousin  ’Lezabeth  ”  understood  him, 
and  he  understood  her,  and  they  had  settled  it  quite  pleas¬ 
antly  and  conveniently  between  them. 

In  returning  thanks  for  past  favours  he  had  informed 
“  cousin  ’Lezabeth  ”  of  his  generous  resolve  for  the  future — 
possibly,  continuing  the  tradesman-simile,  “  hoping  to  merit  a 
continuance  of  the  same  ” — of  taking  off  her  hands,  out  of  the 
overcrowded  home,  and  away  from  the  charges  on  the  over¬ 
crowded  income,  too  burdened — two  mouths  to  be  fed,  two 
bodies  to  be  clothed  and  housed  at  his  expense  and  not  hers, 
from  the  moment  he  took  possession  of  them.  Surely  no 
wonder  that  “  cousin  ’Lezabeth,”  with  this  hope  and  incentive 
to  generosity  before  her,  buttered  for  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe  the 
best  and  hottest  barley-scone  on  the  dish,  did  not  more  than 
half  fill  his  cup  with  water  when  she  poured  out  tea,  and  cut 
such  thick  rich  wedges  of  “  heavy  cake  ”  for  his  refreshment. 

Generously  and  goodmaturedly  he  had  promised  “  cousin 
’Lezabeth  ”  that  he  meant  to  take  her  step-daughter,  Wini¬ 
fred,  and  her  own  daughter,  Sarah  Matilda,  eldest  of  the 
seven,  into  dependence  on  him.  He  had  rather  a  hard  battle 
to  contest  about  Sarah  Matilda,  though;  as  to  Winifred,  there 
was  of  course  no  difficulty  beyond  saying,  “Yes,  you  may 
have  her.”  But  Mrs.  Caerlyon  persistently  tried  to  substi¬ 
tute  Louisa  Harriet,  the  puny,  sickly,  peevish  babe,  for  Sarah 
Matilda,  rising  eight,  “  and  as  smart  a  child  as  need  be.” 

But  Mr.  Pascoe  had  no  notion  of  being  foolishly  generous 
in  the  midst  of  his  liberality  of  spirit.  The  sickly  infant 
could  be  of  neither  use  nor  profit  to  him — Sarah  Matilda 
might  be  both. 

He  meant  to  take  the  two  sisters,  and  provide  them  with 
food  and  clothes  and  shelter,  as  has  been  said;  but  he  meant 
that  they  should  earn  that  support  in  a  measure,  by  making 
his  —  Thomas  Pascoe’s — food,  clothes,  and  shelter  more 
agreeable  and  pleasantly  comfortable  to  him. 

He  would  make  a  wife  and  servant  of  the  elder  sister,  as 
was  meet  and  right  and  convenient,  seeing  that  she  had  come 
to  woman’s  years,  and  was  a  neat  sewer,  a  tasty  cook,  and  a 
tidy  housekeeper — “when  she  is  kept  to  it,”  Mrs.  Caerlyon 


47 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

added  parenthetically — and  of  the  younger  a  handy  little 
waitress,  errand-runner,  and  co-servant,  as  was  meet  and  con¬ 
venient  also;  thus  establishing  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe’s  pros¬ 
pective  comfort,  in  the  matter  of  shirt  buttons,  darned  socks, 
cosy  dinners  and  suppers,  and  general  bodily  comfort,  very 
satisfactorily. 

Matters  being  thus"  arranged  so  neatly  and  conclusively,  it 
followed  naturally  enough  that  the  generous  originator  of  the 
scheme  should  regard  his  future  property  with  the  eye  of  a 
possessor. 

Naturally  enough;  but  Mr.  Pascoe  was  amazed — bewil¬ 
dered,  so  to  speak,  at  the  strangeness  of  the  idea — to  dis¬ 
cover,  upon  his  looking  with  that  eye  of  future  possession  on 
one  division  of  his  property — the  part  that  was  to  represent 
the  wife  and  chief  servant — that  it  exhibited  palpable  evi¬ 
dence  of  a  mutinous  spirit,  growing  at  length  into  open  re¬ 
bellion,  grievously  intermingled  with  fiery  scorn  and  disre¬ 
gard  of  his  worshipful  and  estimable  person. 

It  acquired  a  higher  value  in  his  eyes,  there  is  no  denying, 
by  this  spice  of  difficulty  in  attainment — a  value  that  grew 
higher  as  he  began  to  deem  it  dimly  possible  that  the  prop¬ 
erty  might  never  be  his  to  have  and  hold,  and  that  the  per¬ 
sonal  comforts  his  selfish,  mean  nature  prized  so  highly  might 
vanish  also.  Another  loss  he  had  also  begun  to  recognize  of 
late — the  loss  of  the  woman — the  future  wife — a  loss  which 
he  felt  would  cut  deeper  than  all  else — a  loss  the  bare  thought 
of  which  filled  his  greedy  animal  nature  with  a  subtle  tiger¬ 
ish  jealousy.  He  had  picked  her  out,  chosen  her,  set  his 
mind  on  having  her,  though  she  was  “  no  great  things  of  a 
beauty  to  look  at” — not  near  as  good-looking  as  Susanna 
Edwards,  whom  he  might  have  had  for  asking.  Dare  any  one 
think  of  taking  her  instead  of  him?  Dare  she  think  of  giv¬ 
ing  herself,  or  wish  to  give  herself,  away  to  any  one  else  but 
him? 

He  had  hinted  at  this  uneasiness  of  mind  of  his  to  “  cousin 
’Lezabeth  ” — that  is  to  say,  he  grumbled  when  Winnie  ran 
off  gladly  to  Roseworthy  of  an  evening,  avoiding  him  and 
his  detested  airs  of  proprietorship  whenever  she  could,  say¬ 
ing  that  “  the  young  piece  didn’t  seem  to  have  any  great 
notion  of  settling  down,”  and  that  “  it  was  sure  to  make  the 
maid  full  of  flighty,  grand  extravagant  notions,  to  be  keeping 
company  with  fine  gentry  like  that.” 

An$  “  cousin  ’Lezabeth”  quite  agreed  with  him,  and  was 
fuller  of  ill-will  than  ever  against  u  Winiford’s  ”  grand 


48 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


notions  and  fine-lady  airs  and  ways;  but,  as  both  her  step¬ 
mother  and  expectant  husband  knew  that  restriction  in  this 
respect  would  meet  with  passionate  resistance  from  Winnie 
herself,  and  that  Lieutenant  Caerlyon  would  not  have  Madam 
Vivian  affronted  if  he  could  help  it,  they  were  fain  to  be  con¬ 
tent  with  all  the  passive  opposition  and  hindering  unpleasant¬ 
ness  they  could  muster,  to  weary  and  crush  her  into  tamely 
doing  as  they  wished. 

“  And  what  does  that  grand  fellow,  Tredennick  of  Tre- 
garthen,  want  over  here?”  asked  Mr.  Pascoe,  very  crustily, 
as  he  listened  to  the  sound  of  the  conversation  carried  on 
outside,  and  missed  Winnie’s  presence  from  the  room. 

“  Came  over  to  see  the  Lieutenant,  I  believe,”  said  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  with  a  slighting  toss  of  her  head. 

“  Hum,”  returned  Mr.  Pascoe,  slowly,  lowering  his  brows 
over  his  crafty  eyes;  “  take  care,  ’Lezabeth;  I  have,  my  eye 
on  him,  I  tell  ye.” 

“For  what?”  inquired  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  curiously. 

“  Oh,  never  mind,”  Mr.  Pascoe  replied,  ashamed  to  confess 
such  an  unbecoming  weakness  as  possible  jealousy  of  Wini¬ 
fred’s  affections;  “  there’s  things  I’ve  noticed,  ’Lezabeth.  I 
hope  you’re  not  going  to  let  Winifred  go  over  to  Rose¬ 
worthy  this  evening?” 

“  ’Deed,  I  don’t  know,  I  am  sure,  Thomas,”  said  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  with  another  toss  and  in  shriller  accents;  “  it’s  not 
much  matter  what  I  like  or  don’t  like  in  this  house.  Between 
Miss  Winnie’s  fine  airs  and  nonsense,  and  her  father’s  letting 
her  do  as  she  please,  she  might  spend  morning,  noon,  and 
night  with  Madam,  playing  her  piano,  and  reading  novels, 
and  learning  to  make  grand  curtseys,  and  sit  on  sofas  properly, 
for  anything  I  could  do  or  say!  I  wish  she  was  in  tighter 
hands  than  mine,  I  can  tell  you.” 

“Hum!”  said  Mr.  Pascoe,  more  slowly  than  before — “I 
wonder  at  the  Leftenant  to  let  her.  I’ll  spaik  to  hem,  ’Leza¬ 
beth;  I’ll  spaik  and  tell  him  that  he  must  keep  hes  daughter 
to  home  if  he  wants  to  get  her  married.  It’s  not  every  man,” 
continued  Mr.  Pascoe,  with  an  air  of  serious  questioning  of 
that  over-generous  spirit  of  his,  “that  would  care  to  marry 
a  maid  that  was  running  here  and  there  into  the  houses  of 
fine  proud  gentry,  and  picking  up  with  those  raking,  roving 
sea-captains  of  fellows.  Et  doesn’t  look  well  for  a  young 
maid.  ’Lezabeth,  I  have  my  reasons,  and  so  I  tell  ye.” 

“Ah!  ”  cried  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  opening  her  hard,  bright  eyes 
in  her  eager,  coarse,  scandal-loving  interest;  “  she  met  him 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  49 

on  the  cliff-road,  and  he  came  part  of  the  way  with  her,  she 
told  us.” 

“Ay,”  said  Mr.  Pascoe,  tightening  his  lipless  mouth  into  a 
thin  line,  and  coughing,  as  he  partly  turned  away  his  head, 
implying  that  that  was  all  she  knew  of  it,  “I  saw  ’em 
together — quite  thick  Miss  Winnie  and  the  Captain  seemed 
to  be.” 

“Well,  I  declare!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with  a 
vexed,  malicious  laugh.  “Upon  my  word!  Miss  Winnie,  to 
be  sure!  ” 

Winnie’s  future  generous  lord  and  master  screwed  his 
mouth  in  a  contemptuous  smile,  elevating  his  eyebrows  and 
shaking  his  head,  to  show  how  little  Miss  Winnie’s  ill- 
behaviour  affected  his  peace  of  ifiind,  however  he  might 
regret  her  being  so  blind  to  her  own  interests  as  to  run  the 
dangerous  risk  of  preventing  him,  Thomas  Pascoe,  from 
marrying  her  at  all. 

“  Elizabeth,  my  dear,  can  you  spare  Winnie  this  evening?” 
Lieutenant  Caerlyon  put  his  head  into  the  sitting-room  as  he 
asked  the  question  reluctantly,  ready  to  retreat  at  once  when 
the  usual  hail-shower  of  snappish  remarks,  complaints,  innu¬ 
endoes,  and  grumbling  should  rain  down  on  his  devoted 
head. 

“To  go  to  Roseworthy?”  demanded  his  high-tempered 
spouse,  putting  down  a  tea-spoon  with  awful  deliberation,  and 
surveying  him  with  a  stormy  glance.  “To  go  traipsing 
,off  along  with  Cappun  Tredennick,  I  suppose?  And  you  see 
cousin  Thomas  coming  in  here  to  spend  the  evening,  and  you 
know  the  maid’s  out,  and - ” 

‘‘'Oh,  hush,  will  you,  my  dear!”  implored  her  husband. 
“  Captain  Tredennick  is  here  yet,  and - ” 

“  I  don’t  care  if  he  is  or  not!”  retorted  Mrs.  Caerlyon, 
more  loudly.  “What  is  he  doing  here?  Who  asked  him? 
What  business  has  a  young  maid  to  be  gadding  for  ever  out 
of  her  own  house,  off  with  people  that  are  too  stuck-up  to 
notice  her  relations?  A  pretty  thing — — ” 

Here  Lieutenant  Caerlyon,  in  despair,  closed  the  sitting- 
room  door  with  a  crash,  and  shut  himself  in,  with  the  object 
of  stilling  his  spouse’s  noisy  burst  of  oratory. 

“  That  is  a  nice  wife  for  a  quiet  sort  of  poor  fellow  to  live 
with!”  muttered  Captain  Tredennick  to  himself,  as  Mrs.  Caer- 
lyon’s  shrewish  tones  reached  his  ears.  “  What  possessed  the 
man  to  marry  that  vulgar,  bad-tempered  virago  like  a  Wap- 
ping  landlady!” 

4 


50 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


Feeling  that,  from  some  cause  or  other,  his  presence  was 
peculiarly  unwelcome  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  Captain  Tre- 
dennick  became  anxious  to  rid  her  of  it  and  relieve  himself. 

“  I  must  bid  my  poor  little  friend  good-bye;  I  suppose  she 
wrill  not  be  allowed  to  come  back  with  me,”  he  said,  doubt¬ 
fully,  peering  down  the  flagged  passage  that  led  to  the 
kitchen.  “  I  am  afraid  my  asking  leave  for  her  has  only 
made  trouble.” 

A  few  steps  down  the  flagged  passage  revealed  a  small 
tidy  kitchen  to  the  Captain’s  eyes — revealed  a  pile  of  bread 
being  cut  and  buttered  on  the  white  table,  and  a  busy  little 
figure,  covered  up  in  a  cooking-apron,  going  to  and  fro  between 
it  and  the  fire. 

“  Good  evening,  Winnie  dear,”  said  he;  “I  must  go  now. 
I  wanted^Mrs.  Caerlyon  to  allow  you  to  come  back  to  Rose¬ 
worthy  this  evening  with  me,  but  I  think  she  was  not  willing.” 

“  Oh,  no,”  explained  Winnie,  breathlessly,  “  I  couldn’t  go 
this  evening — there  are  a  great  many  things  to  be  done.” 

“  And  Mr.  Pascoe  has  come  to  tea,”  supplemented  Captain 
Tredennick  with  an  inquisitive  smile,  watching  her  closely. 

Her  passionate  gray  eyes  blazed  with  a  sudden  light  of 
reproachful  anger,  as  she  gave  him  one  quick  look,  and  then 
dropped  them  again. 

“He  waits  for  no  welcome  from  me,  sir,”  said  she,  coldly, 
laying  down  the  bread-knife,  and  extending  the  busy  little 
hand.  “  Good-bye,  Captain  Tredennick.” 

He  took  both  the  poor  little  toil-worn  hands  in  one  of  his,, 
and  held  them  tightly  ill  a  warm,  strong  grasp. 

“  Good-bye,  Winnie  dear,”  he  said,  gently. 

He  pitied  her  so  much — this  pale,  gentle,  intelligent,  re¬ 
fined  girl,  amongst  such  uncongenial  companions  (they  wsould 
be  her  companions,  and  others  like  them,  all  her  life  through 
probably!)  his  heart  swelled  with  mingled  anger,  compassion, 
and  admiration  for  the  small,  fair  face,  with  the  firelight 
gleaming  in  ruddy  gold  on  the  silken  sheen  of  her  hair,  and 
revealing  the  delicate  violet  shadows  beneath  her  deep,  earnest 
eyes,  which  should  shine  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Thomas  Pas¬ 
coe  and  the  mine-workers  of  Tolgooth,  until  her  attractions 
all  faded  and  grew  gray  and  wrinkled  with  the  world’s 
troubles  and  the  wear  of  years.  The  Captain  of  the  Chittoor 
felt  quite  an  unaccountable  spasm  of  vexation  and  regret  at 
the  thought. 

“  You’ll  accept  that  keepsake  that  I  am  going  to  send  you  — 
will  you?”  he  asked,  rather  *  abruptly,  and  still  frowning  a 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  51 

little  from  that  unpleasant  spasm.  “  That  stuffed  flying-fish 
,  or  string  of  coral,  or  whatever  it  is?  You’ll  accept  it,  and 
value  it  for  my  sake— will  you,  Winnie?  And  it  will  keep 
you  from  forgetting  me  when  I  am  far  away.” 

Captain  Tredennick  would  likewise  have  found  it  to  be 
unaccountable  why  he  hated  to  think  that  in  the  future  Mr. 
Thomas  Pascoe  would  be  near  and  remembered,  and  he  far 
away  and  forgotten.  But  there  was  a  hidden  spasm  at  poor 
Winnie’s  passionate  innocent  heart  also. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  looking  up  impulsively;  “but  I  don’t  need 
a  keepsake — I  shall  never  forget!  ” 

With  the  words  of  semi-betrayal,  but  more  from  the 
startled  flush  that  rose  with  them,  flashing  into  the  frightened 
glance  of  her  eyes,  and  flooding  all  her  pale  face  with  crim¬ 
son  to  the  roots  of  her  wavy  hair,  the  light  of  a  sudden  reve¬ 
lation  seemed  to  force  itself  on  Stephen  Tredennick’s  mind. 
A  flush  of  surprise  deepened  through  his  own  sun-browned 
colour,  and  his  calm,  strong  heart  for  a  few  moments  fluttered 
in  strange  excitement.  If  they  were  selfish,  thoughtless 
words,  it  is  possible  that  generous,  thoughtful  Stephen  Tre¬ 
dennick  was  scarcely  aware  of  their  tenor  or  purport  as  he 
replied  confusedly  to  the  girl’s  exclamation,  smiling  oddly 
and  holding  her  hands  tightly  still. 

“Whether  you  forget  me  or  not,  Winnie,”  he  said,  that 
strange  fluttering  at  his  heart  making  his  voice  quite  hoarse 
and  unsteady,  “I  trust  that — that — I  shall  never  hear  of  your 
giving  your  thoughts — or — yourself  to  any  one  but  one  who 
is  well  worthy  of  the  gift — I  trust  I  shall  never  hear  it  when 
I  am  away.” 

He  paused  a  moment,  still  looking  at  the  agitated  face 
burning  with  swift-coming  blushes,  and,  as  he  paused,  there 
seemed  to  sweep  over  him  the  thrill  of  a  strange  pleasure,  a 
strong,  wild  wish,  a  passionate  longing,  and  the  remainder  of 
Captain  Tredennick’s  judicious  common  sense  and  calm  self- 
possession  seemed  to  vanish  before  it. 

“I  must  go,”  he  uttered  suddenly,  in  a  kind  of  startled  fear 
of  the  fascination  that  had  fallen  on  him — the  fascination,  the 
delight,  the  bewildering  sweetness  of  the  pleasure  which  the 
grave  gentleman,  the  steady,  weather-beaten  sailor  of  thirty- 
two  years  of  age,  found  in  standing  in  a  small  red-tiled 
kitchen,  with  rows  of  polished  tin  dish-covers  shining  on  the 
wall  at  his  right  hand,  a  little  black  cooking-stove  with  a 
-bright  fire,  a  singing  kettle,  and  a  baking  griddle-cake,  whose 
delicate,  scorching  flour  odour  was  agreeably  distinguishable, 


52 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MOENING. 


in  front  of  him,  and  Winnie  Caerlyon  by  his  side.  “  Good¬ 
bye,  dear — good-bye,  my  pet!”  he  said,  hurriedly. 

He  turned  to  go  as  he  uttered  the  words,  but  the  delight' 
and  fascination  were  too  strong  for  Stephen  Tredennick — the 
fascination  of  the  presence  of  a  little  girl  in  a  shabby  blue 
dress.  Suddenly  releasing  her  hands,  he  caught  the  slight 
figure  in  his  strong  arms,  and  kissed  her  twice  passionately; 
then  he  hurried  out  of  the  house  and  away  from  Tolgooth, 
and  was  half  way  back  to  Roseworthy  before  the  fast-throb¬ 
bing  heart  in  his  broad. breast  grew  calm  again. 

And  the  little  girl  in  the  shabby  dress  stood  a  long  time 
motionless  on  the  spot  where  he  had  quitted  her,  wondering 
dreamily  how  it  was  that  the  world,  that  used  to  be  so  sad, 
had  changed  into  such  an  Eden  of  joy  and  hope  and  love. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

“Well,  Miss  Winnie,  you  have  concluded  to  put  in  an 
appearance  at  last;  I  am  sure  I  had  grown  perfectly  satisfied 
in  my  mind  that,  for  some  important  reasons  of  your  own, 
your  absence  was  to  be  perpetual.” 

Madam  Vivian  was  smiling,  but  she  was  not  pleased;  nor 
did  she  look  so,  though  she  sat  in  her  favourite  seat  and  atti¬ 
tude,  her  dainty  feet  gleaming  on  the  velvet  footstool,  her 
black,  glittering  fan  in  her  hand  fluttering  softly,  and  her 
handsome  head  resting  against  the  dark-green  velvet  cushions 
of  her  chair. 

“  I  couldn’t  come  before,  indeed,”  pleaded  the  little  pro- 
teg  ee^  humbly  and  earnestly;  “you  know,  dear  Madam,  I 
wrote  and  sent  you  word  that  mamma  was  not  willing,  and 
that  baby  was  very  ill;  and  Tommy  had  such  a  bad  sore 
throat - ” 

“  Oh,  dear  me,  yes — I  know — dreadful!  ”  said  Madam,  irri¬ 
tably,  evidently  applying  the  adjective  in  impatient  disgust, 
rather  than  in  pity  for  the  sufferings  of  the  baby  and 
Tommy.  “You  told  me  so  before.  What  a  nuisance  to 
have  such  a  pack  of  children  in  a  small  house,  and  always 
one  or  two  of  them  ill!  ” 

The  tears  rose  to  Winnie’s  eyes,  but  not  tears  of  self- 
pity.  She  had  an  unhappy  home  she  knew,  but  she  thought 
that  if  that  hateful  Thomas  Pascoe  were  only  out  of  her 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


53 

sight  for  ever,  and  mamma  did  not  scold  her  so  often,  and 
poor  little  Louie  would  grow  strong  and  well,  and  .she  had 
money  enough  to  buy  a  few  nice  warm  clothes,  she  would  be 
quite  happy — for  the  small  salary  which  Madam  insisted  on 
paying  for  her  services  went  into  Mrs.  Caerlyon’ s  pocket, 
untouched,  to  the  extent  of  a  single  shilling,  by  the  poor 
little  recipient.  They  wanted  it  so  badly — Sarah  Matilda, 
Caroline,  Tommy,  Harry  and  the  rest — how  could  she  attempt 
to  buy  line  things  for  herself  when  they  wanted  necessaries? 

Mrs.  Caerlyon,  however,  with  characteristic  plain-dealing, 
placed  the  matter  before  Winnie’s  conscience  in  the  terse 
pithy  sentence — “  Every  penny  of  it  don’t  more  than  pay  for 
your  keep,  Winiford.”  So,  in  order  not  to  rob  the  family 
of  the  portion  for  her  “  keep,”  Winifred  handed  her  salary 
to  her  step-mother  monthly,  as  she  received  it,  only  pleading 
to  have  at  least  one  neat  dress,  in  order  not  to  displease 
Madam.  Poor  Winnie  mended,  and  turned,  and  washed, 
and  darned  the  thinnest,  shabbiest  clothes  of  any  of  the 
family  for  her  own  apparel  when  out  of  the  precincts  of 
Roseworthv.  Still — save  and  take  care  of  it  as  Winnie 
would — that  one  best  dress  of  dark  merino  was  getting 
faded,  and  looked  thin  and  poor,  and  annoyed  Madam’s  eyes. 

“  I  cannot  think,  Winifred,”  she  said,  sharply,  after  a 
lengthened  survey  of  the  meek-looking  figure,  pale  face,  and 
downcast  head,  crowned  with  its  feminine  glory  of  shining 
hair — and  it  seemed  to-night  richer,  more  abundant  and 
becomingly  arranged  than  Madam  had  ever  seen  it — “  why 
Mrs.  Caerlyon  does  not  allow  you  to  spend  the  pocket  money 
I  give  you  on  yourself.  You  have  had  nothing  but  that 
merino  since  last  autumn  twelvemonth;  and  your  jacket  is 
quite  worn  out!” 

“  It  is,  Madam,”  assented  Winnie,  colouring  painfully; 
“but  I  am  going  to  get  a  new  one.” 

“  Of  what  kind?”  asked  Madam,  with  the  never-lacking 
interest  to  a  feminine  mind  which  such  a  subject  possessed. 
“  Get  a  nice  respectable  one,  Winnie,  child;  it  quite  annoys 
me  to  see  you  looking  so  poorly  clad.  There!  there!  don’t 
look  so  distressed — it  is  not  your  fault,  I  know.” 

“  No,  Madam,  but — but  I  know  I  look  shabby,”  she  said, 
with  quivering  lips,  the  painful  blushes  burning  in  her  thin 
cheeks. 

He  had  noticed  her  being  shabby  and  thinly  clad;  she  had 
seen  his  eyes  resting  on  the  frayed  cloth  edges,  the  thread¬ 
bare  cuffs  and  collar  of  her  one  well-worn  cloth  jacket,  that 


54  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 

bitterly  cold  wild  March  morning.  She  had  noted  the  quick 
compassionate  glance  at  each  involuntary  shiver  and  tighten¬ 
ing  of  her  faded  wrapping  shawl — he,  her  idol,  her  demi-god, 
her  great,  tall,  strong,  powerful,  gracious,  beautiful,  demi-god 
without  a  name;  for  how  could  she  dare  to  say  that  she  loved, 
admired,  reverenced,  worshipped  Stephen  Tredennick? 

Impossible!  Winnie’s  heart  nearly  stood  still  at  the  bare 
mental  juxtaposition  of  her  love — shabby,  ill-clad  Winnie 
Caerlyon,  to  whom  Madam  Vivian  paid  twenty  pounds  a 
year  for  reading  to  her  and  waiting  on  her,  to  the  occasional 
exclusion  and  no  small  jealousy  of  her  regular  attendant, 
Miss  Trewhella — her  love  for  Tredennick  of  Tregarthen,  the 
relative,  the  favourite  nephew  of  Madam  of  Roseworthy. 

She  trembled  all  over  at  her  own  outrageous  audacity  as 
she  sat  on  the  little  couch  opposite  Madam’s  chair,  with  the 
satin  cushion  and  embroidery  silks  at  which  she  was  working 
lying  in  her  lap. 

Captain  Stephen  thought  her  shabby  and  ill-clad  too.  He 
had  only  seen  her  in  that  old  worn-out  jacket,  and  her  second- 
best  dress,  a  faded  blue  gingham;  he  would  not  know  any¬ 
thing  about  the  nice  new  jacket  which  she  was  resolved  to 
persuade  her  step-mother  to  buy.  He  would  never  see  it,  for 
he  had  gone  away — gone  for  twelve  months,  perhaps;  it 
would  be  shabby  when  he  came  back — and  she  would  have 
liked  him  to  see  her  look  nice  for  once — he,  her  hero,  her 
grand,  rich,  clever,  high-born  hero;  no,  her  idol — that  was 
the  term — it  was  not  love  so  much  as  worship  of  his  goodness, 
and  graciousness,  and  tenderness.  He  who  had  called  her 
his  dear  Winnie,  his  pet,  and  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her — she  would  have  liked  so  to  let  him  remember  her  nice 
and  neat  and  prettily  dressed! 

“Well,  my  dear,”  said  Madam,  coldly,  “what  are  you  so 
absorbed  about  as  to  utterly  neglect  my  addressing  you?” 

Winnie  started  in  terrified  confusion.  She  was  only 
secretly  idolising  and  worshipping  the  being  whom  her  pat¬ 
roness  loved  best  on  earth — only  hoping  to  idolise  and  wor¬ 
ship  him  in  secret  to  the  last  hour  of  her  life;  but  oh,  how 
dreadful  if  Madam  knew!  It  were  better  for  her  to  die  on 
the  spot! 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Madam;  I  forgot — I  was  thinking.  I 
don’t  know  what  sort  of  jacket  I  shall  have  yet.” 

Madam  raised  her  eyebrows  in  surprise  at  her  little  com¬ 
panion’s  perturbation. 

“That  vulgar  step-mother  has  quite  destroyed  the  girl’s 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING* 


55 


self-possession,”  she  said  to  herself.  “  Don’t  allow  Mrs. 
Caerlyon  to  choose  for  you,  Winifred,  please,”  she  uttered 
aloud,  with  a  curling  lip;  “  you  had  better  have  a  neat  black- 
cloth  jacket,  and  a  set  of  gray  squirrel  furs.  That  reminds 
me,”  she  added  suddenly — “  my  new  furs  may  be  home 
to-night.” 

“Your  new  furs!”  echoed  Winnie,  with  bright  eyes.  “  Oh, 
are  you  going  to  have  new  furs,  Madam?  What  sort?” 

“  Silver  fox,”  said  Madam,  smiling.  “  I  am  tired  of 
ermine  and  Astrakhan.  Stephen  is  to  send  them  to  me  as  a 
present;  he  knows  some  place  in  London  where  he  will  get 
the  very  best,  he  says,  from  Russian  merchants.” 

“Oh,  how  kind — how — how  beautiful!”  stammered  Win-, 
nie,  flushing  and  sparkling  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 

“  Indeed,  I  don’t  think  it  is  kind  at  all,”  retorted  Madam. 
“  Stephen  knows  that  he  has  behaved  unkindly  and  dis¬ 
pleased  me,  and  wants  to  make  up  with  a  present.” 

“How — how  has  Captain  Tredennick  displeased  you, 
Madam?”  inquired  Winnie,  the  blood  rushing  back  to  her 
heart,  and  leaving  her  very  lips  pale. 

Madam’s  eyebrows  were  elevated  again,  in  surprise  at 
modest,  timid  Winnie’s  downright  close  questioning. 

“  By  paying  me  a  ten  days’  visit,  after  three  years’  absence, 
and  making  a  business  excuse  to  go  off  again!  ”  vouchsafed 
Madam,  wit lj  a  frown.  “  But  for  his  writing  and  making  me 
such  a  faithful  promise  to  come  back  in  twelve  months,  and 
stay  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  year  with  me,  I  think  I  should 
have  declined  to  receive  Captain  Stephen  on  his  return;  still, 
I  must  confess  that  I  knew  he  had  heavy  business  matters  to 
transact  at  Lloyds’  and  with  several  foreign  merchants.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  of  course,”  said  Winnie,  white  and  red  by  turns 
with  the  anguish  of  hearing  a  fault  ascribed  to  her  idol.  “I 
am  sure  Captain  Tredennick  would  not  go  unless  he  could 
help  it,  when  he  knew  that  it  would  grieve  you,  Madam.” 

“Why,  what  do  you  know  of  Captain  Tredennick,  Win¬ 
nie?”  asked  her  .patroness,  half  tauntingly  and  half  sharply. 

“Only  what  I  saw  of  him,  Madam,”  answered  Winnie, 
looking  down,  and  making  wrong  stitches  in  her  embroidery. 
“You  know  he  came  over  to  see  father  two  days  before  he 
went.” 

“Oh,  yes,  I  know,”  said  Madam,  affably — “he  told  me; 
also  that  Mr.  Pascoe  had  come  to  spend  the  evening,  and  that 
you  treated  him  very  cruelly.  For  shame,  Winnie!  ” 

“  Why,  I  didn’t  see  him  or  speak  to  him  at  all  while  Cap- 


56 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


tain  Tredennick  was  there!  ”  exclaimed  Winnie,  hastily.  “  It 
was  after  he  was  gone  that  he — they  went  on  so;  and  I  went 
out  of  the  house.  The  mean  wretch!  I  wish  he  was  at 
Jericho!  ”  broke  out  Winnie,  with  confused,  passionate  tears 
and  gestures. 

“My  dear,  pray  control  yourself,”  said  Madam,  coolly. 
“Why  did  they  go  on  so,  as  you  express  it?  ” 

“Because — because — I  don’t  know;  because  that  nasty, 
hateful,  prying  creature,”  answered  Winnie,  shaking  all  over, 
and  crying,  “went  on  saying  things;  and  mamma  took  his 
part,  and  father  scolded  me,  and - ” 

“Oblige  me,  Winifred,  by  being  a  little  more  lucid  in 
your  language;  and  pray  stop  that  unladylike  crying  and 
shaking,”  said  Madam,  in  a  very  cold,  hard  tone,  knitting 
her  line  pencilled  brows  together.  “What  did  Mr.  Pascoe 
say  to  make  your  father  scold  you,  and  make  you  run  out  of 
the  house?” 

“  He  called  me  names,  Madam,”  replied  Winnie,  drying 
her  tears,  and  composing  herself  with  a  strong,  angry  effort 
— “  said  I  was  a  gad-about  and  a  flirt;  and  father  scolded 
me,  though  I  did  not  deserve  it.”  Her  pale,  quiet  face 
was  flushed,  and  almost  sullen,  from  a  sense  of  injury.  “  As 
if  anything  that  mean  false  story-teller  could  say  would 
make  me  think  more  of  him,  or  be  afraid  of  him!”  she 
added,  scornfully. 

“And  whom  did  Mr.  Pascoe  accuse  you  of  flirting  with?” 
asked  Madam,  smiling,  but  looking  rather  perturbed  also. 

Winnie  hesitated,  dropped  her  work  on  the  floor,  and 
Madam  caught  a  glimpse  of  a. frightened  spasm  passing  over 
her  face  as  the  girl  said,  reluctantly,  the  angry  cloud  darken¬ 
ing  her  patient  brow — 

“  A  person  whom  he  had  no  business  to  dare  to  name — of 
whom  he  knew  nothing.  To  dare  to  speak  so!”  she  mut¬ 
tered. 

“Ah,”  said  Madam,  looking  both  vexed  and  pleased,  “I 
have  no  doubt  he  was  wrong,  Winnie.  I  am  sure  you  are  too 
cautious  in  your  conduct  for  any  one  to  be  able  to  bring  a 
true  charge  of  forwardness  or  flirtation  against  you.  You 
know  girls  cannot  be  too  circumspect  in  their  behaviour,  my 
dear,  nor  too  careful  to  avoid  the  empty  attentions  of  men 
who  give  them  a  passing  notice,  and  then  forget  them,  only 
to  remember  them  with  a  jest  amongst  their  companions. 
Never  err  but  on  the  right  side,  my  dear,”  concluded  the 
lady,  who  flirted  gracefully  now  as  she  had  done  all  through 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


57 


her  wifehood,  when  she  had  plenty  "of  constant  admirers — as 
she  had  done  in  the  days  of  young  belleship,  when  she  reck¬ 
oned  her  lovers  in  number  like  her  gloves,  and  thought  as 
little  of  them  after  their  first  charm  had  departed. 

Winnie  did  not  reply  to  the  improving  exhortation,  although 
she  had  listened  to  it  most  attentively  and  believingly.  She 
thought  of  those  farewell  words  in  the  firelight  of  the  little 
red-tiled  kitchen;  she  thought  of  Stephen  Tredennick’s  part¬ 
ing  kiss;  and  the  sound  of  Madam’s  words  seemed  to  beat  on 
her  heart  with  a  cold,  strange  pain.  It  was  not  the  first  pain 
that  her  love  had  cost  her,  poor  Winnie  Caerlyon!  It  was 
not  to  be  the  last. 

“  I  am  sure  that  it  was  untrue  and  unfair  of  Mr.  Pascoe  to 
speak  so,  Winnie  dear,”  Madam  continued,  more  naturally 
and  kindly;  “  because  I  know  that  anything  of  that  sort  is 
quite  foreign  to  your  nature.  I  should  be  greatly  disappointed 
indeed  if  I  found  that  it  was  not.” 

Miss  Trewhella’s  discreet,  gentle  tap  interrupted  the  smooth 
little  homily  meant  for  the  reproof,  guidance,  direction,  and 
warning  of  Madam’s  protegee. 

“  A  large  box  sefit  up  from  Trewillian  station,  Madam— 
from  London.” 

“  Oh,  my  furs! said  Madam,  looking  quite  eager  and 
expectant,  despite  her  slighting  remark.  “  Bring  it  in,  Tre- 
whella,  please.” 

The  great  case  was  dragged  in,  and  the  cords  and  packing- 
papers  were  cut  and.  pulled  off  by  the  united  efforts  of  Win¬ 
nie  and  Miss  Trewhella — the  latter  genteel  person  moaning 
when  the  cords  hurt  her  fingers,  and  the  pincers  caught  her 
nails  instead  of  the  nails  in  the  lid,  and  the  former  working 
away  flushed,  excited,  and  smiling  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
Madam’s  new  splendours  and  admiring  them — oh!  so  much 
— for  the  sake  of  the  kind,  thoughtful,  generous  donor. 

“There  now — at  last!  Oh,  my  goodness!  Dear  Madam, 
it’s  magnificent — it’s  splendid!  Oh,  Miss  Trewhella,  did  you 
ever  see  anything  so  beautiful?  Look  at  the  collarette  and 
the  muff,  and  the  depth  of  that  splendid  silvery  thing  round 
the  velvet!  ” 

“  It’s  very  handsome,  indeed,  Miss  Winnie — quite  fit  for  a 
queen  to  wear,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  with  a  genteel  air  of 
complete  satisfaction  in  having  at  last  seen  what  she  consid¬ 
ered  a  perfect  article;  “light  furs  become  Madam  so  much 
too.” 

“Oh,  it’s  superb,  exquisite!”  murmured  Winnie,  feasting 


58 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


her  eyes  on  the  richness  and  beauty  and  softness  of  the  splen¬ 
did  velvet  and  furs',  without  one  touch  of  envy  or  covetous¬ 
ness  towards  the  owner,  who  already  possessed  several  costly 
sets  of  furs  and  fur  mantles  and  jackets,  the  least  valuable  of 
which  were  never  given  or  promised  to  her,  Winnie  Caer- 

lyon. 

Madam  said  to  herself  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  give  a  poor 
girl  a  single  rich  costly  article  which  would  match  none  of 
the  rest  of  her  attire,  and  most  likely  would  be  appropriated 
by  Mrs.  Caerlyon;  besides,  Trewhella  would  be  jealous,  and 
think  herself  wronged,  and  all  that  nonsense.  For  all 
Madam’s  rich  silks  and  laid-aside  millinery  became  the  por¬ 
tion  of  that  watchful  damsel,  who  indeed  determined  at  this 
moment  to  hint  as  broadly  as  she  could,  on  the  next  favour¬ 
able  opportunity,  on  the  extreme  propriety  of  Madam’s 
making  over  to  her  the  Astrakhan  jacket  and  muff  which  she 
never  wore. 

“  Really  it  is  lovely — quite  a  handsome  present  of  Ste¬ 
phen’s,”  said  Madam,  looking  much  gratified.  “  That  Lyons 
velvet  is  superb,  Trewhella;  and  what  a  depth  of  that  beauti¬ 
ful  silvery  fur!  It  must  have  cost  a  great  deal.” 

Miss  Trewhella,  diving  deeper  into  the  box,  looked  up  at 
this  juncture  with  an  air  of  mingled  reproach  and  comforted 
assurance. 

“  Another  sealskin,  Madam!”  she  said,  lifting  a  pile  of 
quilted  satin  and  golden-black  fur.  “  That  makes  two  seal¬ 
skins,  an  Astrakhan,  a  Polish  ermine,  a  velvet  and  sable,  a 
velvet  and  chinchilla,  the  Canada,  other  furs,  and - ” 

“What  are  you  talking  about?”  interrupted  her  mistress, 
shortly,  understanding  the  drift  of  the  conversation  perfectly. 
“  That  is  not  mine,  Trewhella;  it  is  some  mistake,  of  course. 
I  didn’t  want  a  sealskin,  and  told  Captain  Tredennick  not  to 
get  one,  as  I  preferred  the  silver-fox  for  a  change.  How 
stupid  of  the  people!  But  what  a  beauty  it  is!  It  cost 
twenty  guineas  at  least!  ” 

If  there  was  a  feminine  passion  in  Madam  Vivian’s  calmly 
decorous,  self-contained,  equable  nature,  it  was  a  love  of 
elegant,  costly  dress;  and,  despite  the  treasures  of  her  winter 
wardrobe  which  her  maid  had  reckoned  up,  she  gazed  at  the 
splendid  sealskin  with  longing  eyes,  and  buried  her  little 
white  fingers  in  its  gold-shaded  velvety  depths  with  a  covet¬ 
ous  appreciation  of  its  richness. 

“  Oh,  I  dare  say,  Madam,”  Miss  Trewhella  said,  eyeing  the 
jacket  in  her  turn  with  greedy  longing,  “  that  Captain  Tre- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  59 

dennick  thought  you’d  like  a  new  sealskin  too;  Iliough  your 
other  one  is  as  good  as  new  nearly.  The  Captain  is  so  gen¬ 
erous,  and  makes  such  beautiful  presents,”  she  went  on;  “  you 
remember,  Madam,  that  time  you  expected  a  black  Maltese 
lace  shawl,  he  sent  all  those  splendid  lace  flounces  with  it  and 
your  white  lace  fan.” 

“  Yes,”  agreed  Madam,  taking  up  the  sealskin  admiringly, 
and  willing  to  be  persuaded  that  it  was  an  unexpected  addi¬ 
tion  to  her  generous  nephew’s  costly  present.  “  I  really  did 
not  want  this — foolish  boy!” 

“  And  is  that  for  you  also,  Madam?”  inquired  Winnie, 
amazed. 

“  Yes,  I  suppose  so,”  said  Madam,  carelessly,  as  if  a  twenty- 
guinea  sealskin  more  or  less,  were  no  great  matter.  “  Help 
me  on  with  this  velvet,  Trewhella;  Stephen  is  bent  on  mak¬ 
ing  the  amende  honorable  with  all  his  might.  Ah,  what  is 
that?” 

A  note  fell  from  the  folds  of  the  velvet  as  Trewhella 
shook  it  out,  and  Winnie  caught  it  up  and  presented  it  to 
Madam. 

“  What  has  Stephen  to  say,  I  wonder?”  Madam  murmured, 
with  a  little  satisfied  smile,  tearing  the  envelope  open. 

“  6  My  dear  Aunt  ’ — h’m — 4 1  have  at  last  ’ — li’m — h’m — 
‘  hope  you  will  like  it — very  best  Siberian  fur  ’ — ah - ” 

A  very  long  pause,  in  which  Madam  stared  at  the  paper, 
Winnie  looked  earnestly  at  the  rich  gifts,  thinking  of  the 
giver,  and  longing  to  hear  every  word  he  had  written,  and 
Miss  Trewhella  decided  within  herself  that  she  would  have 
that  Astrakhan  jacket  and  muff  that  very  day — Madam 
might  give  her  the  other  sealskin  too  without  being  over- 
generous. 

The  letter  dropped  from  Madam’s  hand,  and  her  steadfast 
gaze  passed  from  it  to  Winifred’s  unconscious  face — a  little 
saddened.  The  girl  could  not  help  it  while  thinking  what  a 
beautiful  lot  of  things — new  jacket,  and  dress,  and  boots,  and 
bonnet  for  herself,  a  little  swansdown-trimmed  robe  for 
Louie,  a  new  umbrella  for  father — she  knew  he  would  like  a 
nice  silk  one  so  much — and  a  nice  neat  silk-velvet  mantelet, 
the  very  thing  she  was  longing  for,  for  mamma — twenty 
guineas  would  buy,  which  amount  had  all  gone  for  that  jacket 
that  Madam  did  not  want! 

The  magnetic  attraction  of  Madam’s  eyes  made  Winnie 
look  up  hastily;  and  the  face  she  saw — so  set  and  cold,  with 
a  hostile  glimmering  smile,  like  stormy  sunlight,  on  the 


60 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


proud  mouth  and  haughty,  curving  nostrils — almost  made  her 
gasp  with  apprehensive  timidity. 

“  I  did  not  know  that  Captain  Tredennick  promised  you  a 
keepsake,  my  dear?  ” 

“No,  he  did  not — that  is,  I  thought  he  was  only  joking,” 
stammered  Winnie,  her  heart  beating  madly.  “  Why, 
madam?  ” 

“  Oh,  no  ‘  Why  ’  at  all,  my  dear,”  said  Madam,  flinging  the 
note  on  the  table,  the  haughty  nostrils  dilating  ominously, 
and  the  pale,  handsome  face  growing  stony  in  its  unapproach¬ 
able  hauteur  and  cold  indifference;  “only  I  thought  you 
would  have  mentioned  it  when  you  knew  that  it  was  coming 
to  you.  Captain  Tredennick  is  so  generous,  really  I  think 
he  would  give  away  all  that  he  possessed  if  he  were  asked  for 
it.  Don’t  crush  my  sleeve,  Trewhella.  Do  you  remember 
the  time  when  all  those  Llanyon  girls  got  Captain  Tredennick 
to  send  them  keepsakes,  Trewhella?  I  thought  I  should 
have  expired  with  laughter  to  see  them  all  turning  out  in 
coral  necklaces  and  Indian  silk  sashes  every  Sunday — the 
Captain  sent  them  all  one  apiece.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  Madam,”  said  Trewhella,  tittering  doubtfully, 
not  quite  certain  from  what  quarter  had  come  her  mistress’s 
concealed  vexation,  and  looking  askance  at  Winnie,  who  felt 
her  very  limbs  trembling  beneath  her. 

“  Whatever  any  one  asks  him  to  give  is  given  at  once,” 
Madam  continued,  laughing.  “The  Llanyons  were  all  wild 
for  Delhi  embroidered  sashes  and  coral  necklaces,  and  he 
sent  them;  and  so  I  suppose  you  gave  a  hint  of  your  wishes, 
Miss  Winnie?” 

“What,  Madam?  I  didn’t  say  anything,”  said  Winnie, 
the  tears  rising  to  her  eyes.  “  Captain  Tredennick  said,  the 
evening  he  was  at  our  house,  that  he  would  send  me  a  flying- 
fish,  or  a  string  of  coral,  or  something;  and  I  said  that  I  did 
not  w^ant  anything.  I  did  not  ask  him  for  anything, 
Madam.” 

Her  throat  swelled  painfully  with  passionate  excitement 
and  reproach,  and  she  turned  away  to  hide  the  fast-falling 
tears. 

“Dear  me,”  said  Madam,  coolly  sarcastic;  “don’t  make 
such  an  hysterical  piece  of  work  of  it,  Winnie!  I  have  no 
doubt  you  are  very  pleased  and  grateful  for  such  a  handsome, 
expensive  present,  but  there  is  no  need  to  cry  about  it.” 

“What  present,  Madam?  I  know  of  none — I  see  none — 
expected  none!”  cried  Winnie,  goaded  into  sharpness  at  last. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


61 


“  Don’t  you  see  your  fur-jacket?”  asked  Madam,  with  the 
same  careless,  sarcastic  smile.  “Wipe  away  your  tears, 
child,  and  put  it  on,  and  let  us  see  how  you  look  in  it.” 

“Mine!”  Winnie  almost  screamed.  “  That  fur — that  seal¬ 
skin — mine!  It  isn’t,  Madam — he  never  meant  that!  Did 
he — did  he  say  it  was  for  me?  ” 

A  swift,  penetrating  glance  was  all  that  Madam  vouchsafed 
her  excited  young  protegee,  .as  the  former  moved  over  to  the 
full-length  mirror  to  study  the  effect  of  her  new  furs. 

“Now,  I  am  sure,  Miss  Winnie,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  bit¬ 
ing  her  lips  and  affecting  to  smile  like  her  mistress,  when  the 
worthy  young  woman’s  very  heart-strings  were  wrung  with 
jealousy — “  now  I  am  sure  you’ve  got  a  present!  A  real  seal¬ 
skin,  no  less!  My,  won’t  you  be  splendid!” 

“  Do  come  here,  Trewhella,  and  see  why  the  collarette 
won’t  lie  smoothly!”  called  her  mistress,  impatiently,  from 
the  mirror. 

Miss  Trewhella  obeyed,  feeling  ready  to  cry,  hoping  that 
Madam’s  jacket  would  not  fit  her,  and  wishing  “  that  Winnie 
Caerlyon  ”  to  be  banished  in  disgrace  from  Rose  worthy  then 
and  there. 

And  Winnie  stood  dizzily  by  the  table,  looking  at  the 
darkly  golden  heap  beside  her,  afraid  to  touch  it,  afraid  to 
believe  her  own  ears,  or  to  ask  a  question. 

“Well,”  said  Madam,  “what  is  the  matter  now?”  Her 
own  black  Lyons  velvet  and  silver  fur  fitted  perfectly",  and 
looked  superb,  and  the  consciousness  of  looking  like  a  duchess 
— and  a  very  handsome  one — filled  Madam  with  gracious¬ 
ness  for  the  time.  “Why  don’t  you  put  it  on,  child?  Let 
me  see  it.  There!  Well,  really!  Turn  around.  You  must 
have  a  nice  dress  to  go  with  it,  Winnie.  Really  Captain 
Tredennick  determined  you  should  not  be  cold  any  more  this 
spring!  ” 

“He  knew  I  was  cold  that  morning,”  thought  poor  Winnie; 
“it  is  a  charity  gift  to  keep  me  warm!  He  need  not — need 
not  have  insulted  me.  If  he  had  sent  me  a  book  or  a  foreign 
shell,  or  any  little  trifle  of  remembrance,  as  1  thought  he 
would.  But  twenty  guineas  for  a  jacket  for  me!” 

The  frightful  price  of  one  article  of  her  attire,  the  thought 
of  what  they  would  all  say  at  home,  the  intuitive  conscious¬ 
ness  that  Madam  was  displeased,  the  mortification  of  being 
made  the  recipient  of  what  seemed  to  be  Captain  Treden- 
nick’s  compassionate  bounty,  the  secret  rankling  pain  of  such 
being  bestowed  by  him  on  her,  and  the  excitement  of  the 


62 


ALL  IN  THE.  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


splendid  jacket — all  together  quite  overthrew  and  shattered 
Winnie’s  shaken  composure. 

“  I  don’t  want  it — I  don’t  want  it!  ”  she  sobbed,  unhooking 
and  flinging  it  off,  and,  burying  her  face  in  her  outstretched 
arms  on  the  table,  while  Madam  paused  in  surprise  and 
vexation,  until  vexation  got  the  mastery,  and  she  quitted  the 
room,  bidding  Miss  Trewhella  carry  the  fur-box  after  her — 
which  command  that  damsel  obeyed,  with  various  sniffs  and 
indignant  glances  at  sobbing  Winnie. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

“  Miss  Winnie’s  fur  jacket  seems  to  have  turned  her  brain,” 
Madam  remarked,  as  her  maid  laid  the  new  furs  away  in  her 
cedar-closet. 

“  Seems  to,  Madam,”  responded  the  abigail,  with  a  verjuice 
accent;  “  it  was  well  for  Miss  Winnie  she  came  over  that  wet 
night,  else  she  might  never  have  met  the  Captain.  Twenty 
guineas  for  a  jacket  for  her — well  to  be  sure!  He  must 
think  a  great  deal  of  her.  Rich  gentlemen  take  those  fancies 
sometimes.” 

“  What  fancies?  ”  asked  Madam,  sternly. 

“  Fancies  of  making  splendid  presents  to  young  ladies  they 
know  aren’t  well  off,  Madam,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  very 
mildly,  but  tossing  her  head  and  making  a  contemptuous  face 
in  the  depths  of  the  cedar-closet. 

As  true  as  that  there  never  was  a  man  who  was  a  hero  to 
his  valet-de-chambre ,  so  true  is  it  that  the  haughtiest  belle,  the 
most  brilliant  leader  of  fashionable  society,  never  was,  never 
is,  never  will  be,  a  heroine,  wonderful,  adorable,  unattainable, 
perfect,  to  the  adroit  personage  who  knows  that  she  has  a 
fashion  of  wearing  her  boots  on  one  side,  that  she  is  con¬ 
stantly  afflicted  with  chapped  lips,  that  there  are  some  cun¬ 
ning  pads  about  that  charming  figure,  or  that  the  tooth  next 
her  left  eye-tooth  can  be  removed  at  wflll. 

Madam  of  Roseworthy  formed  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
The  only  person  on  earth  who  slighted  Madam’s  words  and 
despised  her  pride,  secretly,  who  sought  opportunities  to  pay 
off  affronts  or  grievances,  and  who  actually,  by  dint  of  quer¬ 
ulous,  spiteful,  declarations  of  her  constant  and  unrequited 
devotion  to  her  mistress,  by  despairing  threats  and  manifes- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  63 

tations  of  heart-brokenness  and  wounded  feelings  under  any 
provocation,  had  maintained  an  ascendancy  greater  than  any 
one  else  over  Madam  Vivian,  was  her  waiting-woman— Eliza¬ 
beth  Trewhella. 

“A  splendid  present,  certainly,”  she  said,  coldly,  feeling 
annoyed  that  she  had  allowed  Trewhella  to  perceive  her  dis¬ 
pleasure  at  her  nephew’s  rich  gift;  “  but  I  think,  if  Captain 
Tredennick  had  asked  me,  I  could  have  told  him  of  some¬ 
thing  which  Miss  Winnie  would  have  liked  much  better.  If 
he  had  sent  her  a  nice  gold  watch  and  a  black  silk  dress, 
they  would  have  been  much  more  useful  to  her  than  one 
expensive  article  like  that.  Hand  me  the  Times ,  Trewhella, 
and  spread  the  sofa-blanket  over  my  feet;  I  shall  not  go 
down  again,  I  think — I  do  not  feel  quite  well.” 

“Not  a  bit  of  it!”  thought  Miss  Trewhella,  vindicating 
herself,  as  she  glided  softly  about,  with  a  meek,  sorrowful 
expression,  attending  to  her  mistress’s  wants.  “You  are  in 
such  a  rage  at  the  Captain’s  giving  her  that  fur  jacket  that 
you  don’t  want  to  see  her  again.  The  young  minx!  How 
ever  did  she  get  him  to  promise  it  to  her?  I’ll  make  Madam 
tell  me  sometime  when  she  is  in  humour.  I  am  with  his 
aunt,  slaving  and  waiting  on  her  these  ten  years,  and  I  never 
got  but  a  few  half-sovereigns  from  him  at  Christmas — and 
that  vulgar  old  cook  and  the  butler  the  same.  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon,  a  young  chit  he  never  saw  before,  gets  a  twenty- 
guinea  jacket  from  him!  Upon  my  word,  he  didn’t  admire 
her  fine  long  hair  for  nothing!  A  keepsake — no  less!  I 
thought  Pascoe,  the  purser  at  Tolgooth,  was  the  one  to  give 
her  keepsakes,  and  not  Madam’s  nephew — Captain  Stephen 
Tredennick  of  Tregarthen.  And  isn’t  Madam  vexed!  She 
knows  there’s  more  in  it  than  she  knows  about;  and  that  sly 
young  one  to  pretend  she  was  taken  all  of  a  surprise!  And 
isn’t  he  sly  too!  Sober  Captain  Tredennick,  that  you  wouldn’t 
think  knew  whether  a  body  had  a  head  on  ’em  or  not! 
Madam’s  up  to  him  more  than  other  folks.  That’s  what  put 
her  out  so  the  morning  I  told  her  he’d  been  admiring  Miss 
Winnie’s  hair.  4  And  how  came  Captain  Tredennick  into  the 
housekeeper’s  room?  ’  says  she,  as  sharp  as  vinegar!  ” 

Aloud  the  obsequious  attendant  inquired,  meekly  and  re¬ 
spectfully — 

44  Shall  I  send  Miss  Winnie  up  to  read  to  you,  Madam?” 

44  No,  thank  you,”  replied  her  mistress,  very  quietly. 

44  She’s  studying  that  •  one  page  a  long  time,”  said  Miss 
Trewhella  to  herself,  with  an  inward  sneer.  44 1  wouldn’t 


64  ALL  in  the  wild  maech  morning. 

stand  in  Miss  Winnie’s  shoes  for  something.  She’ll  catch  it 
heavy  enough,  some  time  or  other,  about  the  Captain’s  grand 
keepsake.  I  wonder  what  will  Pascoe  say?” 

“Madam  isn’t  coming  downstairs  again,  Miss  Winnie,” 
Miss  Trewhella  announced,  entering  the  drawing-room  with 
a  cat-like  step,  to  find  Winnie  sitting  in  the  window-seat,  her 
face  pressed  against  the  panes. 

“Is  she  not?  Is  she  not  well?  Am  I  to  go  up  and  read 
to  lie:;,  Miss  Trewhella?”  she  asked,  starting  up  and  displaying 
a  pale  tear-swollen  face  to  the  lady’s-maid’s  keen  eyes. 

“She  is  quite  well;  but  you’re  not  to  go  up  to  read 
to  her.  She  wishes  to  be  alone,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  sail¬ 
ing  about  the  room  in  a  free-and-easy  manner,  darting  sharp 
looks  at  Winnie,  and  envious  ones  at  the  fur  jacket  and  sail¬ 
ing  out  again,  humming  a  song,  and  leaving  the  door  open. 

“She  is  angry  with  me!  Oh,  what  shall  I  do?”  cried  poor 
Winnie  in  despair.  “Oh,  why  did  he  do  such  a  cruel  thing? 
I  may  as  well  go  home  again — I  would  ask  her  to  forgive  me, 
but  I  have  done  no  wrong.” 

Hastily  putting  on  her  old  worn  jacket  and  little  straw  hat, 
she  pulled  down  her  veil  to  hide  her  face,  and  stole  upstairs 
to  the  door  with  the  green  flossy  mat  and  heavy  velvet  hang¬ 
ings  shrouding  the  entrance  to  Madam’s  dressing-room. 

She  knocked  twice  without  evoking  any  response,  and  then 
softly  turned  the  handle. 

“Who  is  there?’’  Madam  called  sharply.  “Trewhella, 
why  do  you  disturb  me?” 

“  It  is  I,  Madam — Winnie,”  came  the  faint  little  voice. 

“  Then  why  do  you  disturb  me?  ”  Madam  demanded,  more 
sharply  and  angrily.  “  If  I  required  your  presence,  I  should 
have  sent  for  you.” 

“I  only  came  to  ask  if  I  am  to  go  home,  Madam,  as  Tre¬ 
whella  said  you  were  not  coming  down  any  more.” 

“  Yes — you  may,”  responded  her  patroness,  shortly.  “  Shut 
the  door,  please,  and  draw  the  curtain.” 

“  Good  evening,  Madam.” 

“Good  evening.” 

For  one  minute  Winnie  stood  outside  the  velvet-lmng  por¬ 
tal,  battling  with  her  grief  and  mortification,  and  then  the 
measure  of  injustice  that  had  been  so  unfairly  dealt  her 
touched  the  spring  of  her  yet  unbroken,  strong  spirit. 

“  Madam  Vivian  has  no  right  to  treat  me  so,”  she  said,  and 
her  tears  dried  as  if  by  fire,  and  she  walked  steadily  down¬ 
stairs,  and  was  passing  out  through  the  hall,  when  the  sight 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


65 


of  Mrs.  Grose  standing  in  the  drawing-room,  holding  up  the 
sealskin  jacket,  and  giving  vent  to  whispered  ejaculations  of 
rapture  arrested  her  steps. 

“Miss  Winnie  dear,  come  here!”  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands.  “  This  is  what  the  Captain  sent  you  home.  Oh,  my 
dear  Miss  Winnie,  pet,  ain’t  it  most  beautiful !  Miss  Tre- 
whella  told  me.  And  it  cost  twenty  guineas,  and  is  fit  for 
Madam  herself !” 

“  But  is  quite  unfit  for  me,”  observed  Winnie,  quietly  and 
bitterly;  “  it  was  a  foolish  present  for  Captain  Tredennick  to 
send,  and  Madam  thinks  so  too,  and  Miss  Trewhella.” 

“  Miss  Trewhella!”  echoed  Mrs.  Grose,  getting  as  red  as 
one  of  her  own  joints  of  beef.  “  And  what  has  Miss  Tre¬ 
whella  to  say  as  to  what’s  proper  or  not  proper  for  you,  Miss 
Caerlyon,  to  wear,  I’d  like  to  know?  And,  if  Captain  Ste¬ 
phen  hev  sent  you  a  splendid  jacket,  what  hev  Miss  Tre¬ 
whella  to  say  to  it?  And,  if  Captain  Stephen  hev  took  a 
fancy  to  you,  Miss  Winnie,  aren’t  you  a  lady,  same  as  any  lady 
he  might  take  a  fancy  to?  And  where  could  he  find - ” 

“  Oh,  Mrs.  Grose — dear  darling  nurse — hold  your  tongue!  ” 
Winnie  cried  in  dismay,  stifling  the  worthy  woman’s  indig¬ 
nant  outpouring.  “Oh,  don’t — don’t!  I  wish  he  had  not! 
It  was  kind  of  him,  but  I  shall  never  wear  it  or  touch  it! 
Good  evening,  Mrs.  Grose — I  am  going  home.” 

“  Without  a  bit  or  sup,”  Mrs.  Grose  cried,  “  and  I  baked 
lemon  cheese-cakes  for  supper!  Wait  a  minute  then — to 
please  me,  Miss  Winnie!”  she  begged,  as  Winnie  shook  her 
head  and  pushed  away  the  detaining  arms. 

Breathlessly  the  kind-hearted  rotund  creature  hurried  down 
to  the  larder,  pantingly  she  came  up  again,  rushed  about  for 
a  minute  to  find  a  wrapping-paper,  and  overtook  Winnie  as 
she  went  sadly  and  slowly  across  the  grounds. 

“You — you — shall  have — some  o’  my  cheese-cakes,  Miss 
Win— nie,  dear!  I  made  ’em  most— a  purpose  for — you! 
Lor,  I’m  out  o’ — breath — clean!  There,  my  lovey,  don’t  fret. 
She’ll — be  a — grand  la — lady  yet!  ” 

The  fragrant-smelling,  flaky  little  parcel  of  dainties  could 
not  carry  much  consolation  with  it,  though  her  old  nurse’s 
tender  kindness  touched  Winnie’s  sore  heart.  She  wished 
the  children  were  there,  and  opened  the  paper  to  see  how 
best  she  could  divide  her  present. 

“Four:  cut  them  in  halves,  and  they’ll  all  have  a  bit  and  a 
piece  over — Tommy  shall  have  it,  as  he  is  ill;”  and  then,  in 

5 


66 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


the  midst  of  the  generous  little  sisterly  calculation,  a  message 
of  consolation  came  to  poor  Winnie  herself. 

The  wrapping-paper  was  none  other  than  the  letter  which 
Captain  Tredennick  had  sent  with  his  present,  which  Madam 
had  flung  aside  in  her  displeasure,  and  Mrs.  Grose  had  picked 
up  in  her  haste. 

“And -I  also  send  a  sealskin  jacket,  which  I  hope,  dear 
aunt,  you  will  give  from  me  to  your  little  friend,  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon,  I  told  her  that  I  should  send  her  a  keepsake  when 
I  went  away;  and  I  think  this  .is  the  best  and  most  suitable 
one  I  could  give  her.  I  hope  she  will  not  be  offended  at  my 
doing  so.  Please  say  something  nice  and  gracious,  like  your- 
.  self,  when  giving  it,  as  I  have  only  offered  it  in  a  very  rough 
sailor-fashion;  and  say  I  hope  she  will  wear  it  as  a  sailor’s 
keepsake — in  kindly  remembrance  of  the  giver.” 

Courteously,  kindly,  gently,  cordially,  he  had  proffered  his 
gift,  and  she  had  scorned  it,  flung  it  aside,  hated  it,  as  an  in¬ 
sult  and  a  wrong! 

But  Madam  had  given  no  gracious  message,  no  kindly 
word — neglected  his  earnest  request — passed  by  the  courtesy 
and  gentleness  that  he  strove  to  put  into  her  words. 

“Madam  Vivian  has  no  right  to  treat  me  so!”  she  said 
again;  and  her  girlish  face  grew  hard  and  lined  with  passion¬ 
ate  womanly  feeling.  “Madam  Vivian  has  wronged  me!” 

And,  in  that  half  hour,  while  she  sat  there  by  the  lonely 
roadside,  in  the  chill  gloomy  evening,  gazing  at  Stephen 
Tredennick’s  words — which  came  like  balm  to  the  crushed 
sad  spirit,  the  pained  lonely  heart — and  thinking  of  Madam 
Vivian’s  insulting  coldness  and  injustice,  the  gentle  timidity 
of  Winnie’s  girlish  love  passed  away  for  ever — changed  into 
a  proud  woman’s  deep  silent  passion,  which  she  might  die  for 
but  never  deny. 

She  folded  the  crumpled  letter  neatly,  kissed  it,  and  hid  it 
in  her  dress. 

“  In  kindly  remembrance  of  the  giver,”  she  said — “  Stephen 
Tredennick,  while  I  have  a  heart  to  beat  with  love  for  him! 99 


ALL  IN  TELE  WILD  MAECH  MOBNING.  67 


CHAPTER  IX. 

All  through  the  long  hot  summer  day — the  blazing  sunlight 
reflected  from  the  great  blue  molten  mirror  of  the  ocean, 
from  the  granite  face  of  the  sheer  precipitous  cliffs,  and  with 
dazzling  glare  from  the  snowy  whitewashed  walls  of  the 
Coastguard  station,  the  flashingly-bright  windows  of  which 
concentrated  the  rays  to  a  focus  like  so  many  burning  glasses 
— had  the  hot  busy  hours  passed  in  the  work  that  seemed 
never  to  end,  the  tasks  that  were  only  accomplished  in  series 
to  make  room  for  more. 

Winnie  had  washed,  starched,  and  ironed  all  those  neat 
muslin  blinds,  and  put  them  up  smooth  and  spotless  again; 
she  had  finished  the  little  frock  begun  two  days  ago  for  Louie, 
and  hummed  a  line  or  two  of  Tennyson’s  “  Cradie  Song” — 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  Western  Sea! 

— as  she  tried  the  garment  on,  and  found  that  it  fitted  the 
baby  owner  so  nicely;  she  had  baked  the  bread  and  “  pasties,” 
and  peeled  the  turnips  and  potatoes  for  dinner;  she  had  had 
some  trifling  occupation  afterwards  in  the  shape  of  sprinkling 
and  folding  three  dozen  “  pieces  ”  of  clothes  and  despatching  , 
them  to  be  mangled;  she  had  darned  two  table-cloths  and 
three  pairs  of  boys’  socks;  she  had  laid  the  table  for  tea,  and 
polished  the  spoons  and  teapot  with  whitening  and  chamois 
leather;  and,  on  Tommy  distinguishing  himself  by  upsetting 
the  tea-kettle  on  the  stove,  she  had  to  undertake  a  hasty  re¬ 
filling,  reboiling,  replenishing  of  the  fire,  and  wiping  up  of 
water  and  ashes. 

True,  Winnie  had  done  this  all  unaided,  patiently,  uncom¬ 
plainingly;  and  “pity  ’twas  ’twas  true”  that  it  was  counted 
but  as  a  thankless  matter-of-course,  deserving  of  no  com¬ 
mendation  or  alleviation* 

She  thought  so  herself,  but  she  had  become  so  used  to  it. 
There  are  many — scores,  hundreds,  thousands — such  patient 
body-and-soul  wearers  toiling  for  others,  not  themselves,  their 
toil  evoking  in  return  neither  surprise  nor  gratitude. 

There  was  nothing  wonderful,  therefore,  in  this  long  sum¬ 
mer  day’s  toil,  which  had  left  Winnie’s  face  so  pallid  and 


68 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


weary,  her  small  thin  hands  and  arms  so  soiled  and  discol¬ 
oured,  which  had  roughened  all  that  twisted-up  mass  of 
brown  hair,  and  had  made  the  old  blue  gingham  gown,  now 
in  the  last  stage  of  shabbiness,  so  stained  and  frayed — only 
it  was  a  pity. 

Nature  had  meant  that  intellectual  brow,  that  expressive 
changeful  face,  those  deep,  passionate  eyes,  that  slender, 
nervous,  supple  form,  as  a  casket  to  enshrine  rare  endow¬ 
ments,  if  it  lacked  outwardly  her  choicest  workmanship. 

It  was  a  pity,  but  the  girl  did  not  know  it,  or  was  only 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  dull  pain  of  remembrance  of 
months  and  years  of  toil  like  this.  It  had  always  been  so — 
it  would  always  be  so  in  the  weary  years  to  come,  she  sup¬ 
posed,  until  she  lay  in  that  mossy  grave  in  Trewillian  church¬ 
yard,  and  beneath  the  name  of  “  Vfinifred,  the  beloved  wife 
of  John.  Caerlyon,”  was  written  that  of  her  only  child. 

Pale-faced,  hard -worked  little  girls,  in  lonely  hours,  have  a 
morbid  fancy  for  this  prospect  of  mossy  graves  under  weep¬ 
ing  willows.  But  just  now  Winnie  Caerlyon  was  conscious 
only  of  her  soiled  hands,  her  shabby  old  gown,  and  her 
unkempt  hair,  and  of  a  longing  for  her  toilet  to  be  finished, 
that  she  might  sit  down  to  rest. 

“  Winnie,  is  the  kettle  boiled?  ” 

“No,  mamma — it’s  singing.” 

“  Singing!  What’s  it  only  singing  for,  at  six  o’clock  in 
the  evening — eh?” 

“  It  was  just  boiling,  mamma,  half-an-hour  ago,  and  Tommy 
spilled  it.” 

“Spilled  it!  That’s  pretty  work!  What  did  ye  let  the 
boy  go  meddling  with  the  kettle  for?  And — my  patience, 
Winiford!” — at  this  point  Mrs.  Caerlyon  had  entered  the 
kitchen — “  is  that  the  set-out  you  are  in  at  this  hour?  A 
perfect  muck!  Why,  I  never  saw  such  a  maid  as  you  are 
for  a  sloven!  I  suppose,  since  you  are  not  off  to  Roseworthy 
every  evening,  you  don’t  think  it  worth  while  to  make  your¬ 
self  decent  in  your  father’s  house.” 

“  I  am  going  to  tidy  myself  in  a  minute,  mamma — I  have 
only  just  cleaned  the  spoons  and  tea-pot.” 

“Spoons  and  teapot  at  this  hour  o’ the  evening!  What 
next,  pray?  Do  you  never  have  a  proper  time  for  your 
work,  that  you  should  keep  yourself  in  a  mess  like  a  mine- 
girl  till  people  are  expecting  to  sit  down  decently  to  meals?  ” 

Silence  on  unhappy,  lazy,  slovenly  Winnie’s  part.  She 
drooped  her  head  for  a  minute  under  the  accustomed  hail- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


69 


storm  of  “  nagging,”  and  turned  aside Trom  her  step-mother’s 
hard  brown  eyes,  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  her 
brows  magisterially  bent  on  the  shabby  slender  little  figure. 
She  turned  aside,  and  her  gaze,  mechanically  seeking  the  hot 
calm  evening  sunlight,  the  liquid  turquoise  of  the  sleeping 
ocean,  and  the  dark  cool  shadow  of  the  cliffs  falling  athwart 
the  little  bay,  now  rippling  smooth  and  deep  at  high-water 
mark,  became  in  an  instant  arrested. 

Forgetful  alike  of  her  deshabille  and  her  step-mother’s 
presence,  she  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  parted  lips 
and  fast-beating  heart,  staring  at  two  figures  standing  a  few 
yards  beyond,  at  the  head  of  the  pathway  that  led  down  the 
cliffs. 

“Trewhella!”  she  gasped.  “  Then  Madam’s  home  again! 
Is  she  coming  hither?  And  who  is  that  beautiful  young 
lady?” 

At  Jhe  instant  Trewhella  turned,  and  at  a  glance  her  sharp 
eyes  detected  the  face  at  the  open  window. 

“Good  evening,  Miss  Winnie!  Beautiful  day,  is  it  not?” 
she  said,  loudly  and  familiarly,  advancing  a  step  or  two  in  glori¬ 
fied  consciousness  that  the  level  rays  of  the  brilliant  sunshine 
were  displaying  the  flounces  of  her  light  blue  silk  dress,  and 
the  deep  embroidery  of  her  white  petticoat,  to  the  utmost 
advantage.  “I  dare  say  you  are  astonished  to  see  me?” 

“I — I  am,”  stammered  poor  Winnie,  fully  aware  that  the 
level  rays  of  sunlight  were  displaying  her  disarranged  hair, 
soiled  collar,  and  tucked-up  sleeves  to  the  utmost  advantage 
in  another  way.  Ashamed  to  stay,  but  too  proud  to  rush 
away  and  hide,  she  remained,  in  spite  of  her  step-mother’s 
half-audible  commands  before  Miss  Trewhella  and  the  beau¬ 
tiful  young  lady — a  tall,  finely-developed  girl,  young,  hand¬ 
some,  haughty,  self-willed-looking,  with  an  easy  carriage  of 
her  proud  head  and  aristocratic  figure,  and  with  a  nameless 
grace  and  elegance  in  the  simplicity  of  her  girlish  costume, 
expensively-chaste  as  were  its  rich  material  and  exquisite 
Parisian  fit  and  shape. 

A  lady  undoubtedly,  from  the  calm  insouciance  of  her 
unruffled  self-possession,  from  the  inquiring  gaze  of  her  deep- 
set  brilliant  eyes  beneath  their  haughty  brows,  from  the  light 
poise  of  the  tall,  full  figure — as  far  removed  from  Miss 
Trewhella’s  self-assurance  and  familiarity  as  was  the  undis- 
coverable  stamp  of  perfection  on  that  wonderful,  simple  cos¬ 
tume  of  dove-coloured,  satin  like  material,  with  its  fringes  of 
deeper  shade,  its  hanging  folds  and  sleeves  with  silken  linings, 


70  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

the  accurately-matched,  treble-buttoned  gloves,  and  the  hat 
a  mass  of  snowy  ostrich  feather  and  pale  golden  gossamer, 
from  the  showy  smartness  of  the  lady’s-maid’s  rustling  silk 
and  stiff  white  skirts. 

She  had  quietly  surveyed  Winnie  for  a  few  moments,  as  if 
studying  the  effect  of  her  figure  in  the  framework  of  the 
window,  and  rather  disapproving  of  it  by  the  fine  knitting  of 
the  lines  on  her  low  wide  forehead,  when  the  name  pro¬ 
nounced  in  Miss  Trewhella’s  shrill  voice  fell  on  her  ear.  She 
made  a  slight  movement  of  surprise,  and  then  a  wide  open¬ 
ing  of  the  proud  bright  eyes,  and  a  faint  curve  on  the  short 
full  lower  Up,  were  perceptible. 

“I  am  surprised,”  Winnie  said,  confusedly,  colouring;  “I 
did  not  know  that  Madam  was  home  again.  I  hope  she  is 
quite  well,  Miss  Trewhella?” 

“  Is  that  Miss  Winnie  Caerlyon?”  the  young  lady  demanded, 
in  a  clear  imperious  voice;  and  Miss  Trewhella,  with  a  confi¬ 
dential  little  aside  smile,  said,  “Yes,  Miss  Mildred — that’s 
her,  poor  thing!” 

“Madam’s  home  again,  sure  enough,”  she  replied,  in  a 
louder  tone,  to  Winnie,  who  was  watching  the  proud  hand¬ 
some  girl  with  a  kind  of  fascination;  “  and  Miss  Mildred 
Tredennick’s  come  to  stay  with  her.” 

“I  am  Miss  Tredennick,  Trewhella.  I  have  corrected  you 
before  for  naming  me  in  that  school-room  fashion,”  inter¬ 
rupted  the  young  lady,  haughtily;  and,  vouchsafing  Winnie 
only  another  coldly-surprised  glance,  she  turned  lightly  on 
her  heel,  and  walked  off  towards  the  cliff-path  again,  evi¬ 
dently  to  permit  the  lady’s-maid  and  the  lady’s-maid’s  friend 
— the  shabby  hard-worked-looking  girl — to  have  a  chat 
together. 

That  haughty  parting  glance  which  she  intuitively  under¬ 
stood,  stung  Winnie  into  remembrance  of  herself. 

“I  am  glad  to  hear  that  Madam  is  well,”  she  said,  as 
coldly  and  distantly  as  Miss  Tredennick  could  have  spoken. 
“  Good  evening — the  young  lady  is  waiting  for  you.” 

“Well,  but — Miss  Winnie — Miss  Winnie!” — Mi$s  Tre¬ 
whella  ran  over  to  the  window,  and  actually  thrust  her  smart 
summer  bonnet,  with  its  pink  roses  and  white  lace,  into  the 
kitchen — “aren’t  you  coming  over  to  Roseworthy  again,  eh? 
You’ll  be  coming  over  to-morrow  or  next  day,  won’t  you?” 

She  knew  well  that  Winnie  Caerlyon  was  not  coming  to 
Roseworthy  to-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  any  day  afterwards, 
but  she  could  not  resist  the  feminine  hankering  to  flaunt  over 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


71 

a  fallen  rival,  made  doubly  triumphant — such  was  the  noble 
calibre  of  Miss  Trewhella’s  mind — by  the  consciousness  of 
her  new  blue  flounced  silk  and  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  forlorn 
shabbiness. 

“Not  unless  Madam  sends  for  me,”  said  Winnie,  not  paus¬ 
ing  to  look  round  as  she  hastily  quitted  the  kitchen,  and  ran 
upstairs  to  the  little  room  with  the  dormer  window,  shared 
with  two  of  her  young  step-sisters,  where  she  pulled  off  her 
working  dress,  whilst  tears  of  mortification  and  pain  rolled 
down  her  flushed  cheeks. 

She  was  not  a  philosopher,  poor  Winnie! — only  a  woman — - 
and  a  young,  sensitive  woman,  of  girlish  years. 

“  That  was  his  cousin,  that  beautiful  young  lady,  who 
looked  at  my  dirty  dress  and  untidy  hair,”  she  said,  with  a 
suppressed,  bitter  cry.  “  I  couldn’t  help  it — I  was  doing  so 
much  work  to-day.  But  oh,  how  she  despised  me  as  a  poor, 
common,  servant-like  girl!  She  will  never  think  of  me  as 
anything  else.” 

She  bathed  her  pallid,  weary  face  in  water;  she  braided  up 
the  dark,  silken  masses  of  her  hair  above  the  marble-white 
brow  and  violet-shadowed  eyes;  she  hastily  arrayed  herself, 
in  spite  of  aching  arms  and  nervous  hands,  in  her  neat, 
freshly-ironed  print  dress,  with  its  clean  lace  frill  and  tiny 
blue-ribbon  bow;  but  the  tears  came  again  and  again  into  the 
sad  dark  eyes  as  she  took  a  hasty  last  glance  at  the  little 
looking-glass. 

“No,”  she  said,  drearily  and  quietly,  “I  am  nothing  but  a 
poor,  plain,  hard-working  girl,  who  does  the  work  of  a 
servant.  I  should  never  forget  that.  Mildred  Tredennick 
never  will.  He  never  would  if  he  saw  me  as  she  did  this 
evening!” 


CHAPTER  X. 

“What  a  sulky  sort  o’  way  that  there  maid  do  go  on  with 
to  be  sure!”  Mr.  Pascoe  remarked,  with  a  dissatisfied  scowl 
in  the  direction  of  the  wearer  of  the  print  dress,  who  was 
sitting,  outside  the  window,  in  the  soft  summer  twilight,  with 
little,  peevish,  whimpering,  clinging  Louie  in  her  arms  as 
usual. 

“Ah!”  responded  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with  a  toss  of  her  head, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


72 

“  it’s  because  she’s  not  off  to  her  grand  company  every  even¬ 
ing  as  she  used  to  do.” 

“  Ay,”  Mr.  Pascoe  said,  with  a  deeper  scowl;  “  ’twas  high 
time  to  stop  that  there  running  hafter  grand  ladies  and 
grand  gentlemen — high  time,  ’Lezabeth!” 

“  Well,”  explained  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  shortly,  as  there  seemed 
to  be  a  certain  amount  of  blame  charged  to  her  in  her  worthy 
cousin’s  accents,  “’twas  Madam  stopped  it  herself — all  you’d 
have  said  for  a  twelvemonth  wouldn’t  have  made  her  leave 
else.” 

“And  you’d  ’ave  hallowed  her  to  stay,  would  ’e?”  Mr.  Pas¬ 
coe  demanded,  in  a  higher  key,  transposing  aspirates  abund¬ 
antly  in  his  vehemence.  “You’d  ’ave  hallowed  that  maid  to 
go  on  making  of  herself  a  country  talk,  with  her  visits  to 
Roseworthy  and  her  coming  home  at  daybreak  with  strange 
sea-captains,  and  getting  grand  presents  from  ’em,  would  ’e — 
would  ’e?  Then  I  tell  ’e,  ’Lezabeth,  you  might  pretty  soon 
’ave  keeped  ’eer  maid  shut  up  at  home,  for  she  couldn’t  show 
her  face  abroad!” 

“What  d’ye  mean  by  that,  cousin  Thomas?”  asked  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  angrily.  “  The  maid  haven’t  lost  her  good  name — ■ 
have  she — -that  ye  should  speak  like  that?” 

“  She’s  not  thought  none  the  better  of,  I  can’  tell  ’e,”  Mr. 
Pascoe  retorted  with  a  nod  of  assurance,  his  foxy  face  hard¬ 
ening  into  a  spiteful  smile.  “  Miss  Winifred  is  none  the 
better  for  her  grand  friends  and  her  grand  presents — I  beared 
many  a  one  making  remark  ’bout  it.” 

“They  were  talking  greatly  of  that  fine  fur-jacket  the 
.Captain  gave  her,  I  know,”  said  the  step-mother,  her  better 
feelings  of  justice  and  common-sense  contending  with  her 
jealousy  of  “Lady  Winiford  ” — as  she  had  taken  to  calling 
her  when  in  special  moods  of  ill-temper — and  her  provincial 
keen-edged  delight  in  scandal  of  whatever  nature.  “  I  heard 
aunt  Mary  and  cousin  Anna  Maria  Carthew  going  on  about 
it  in  a  great  way,  saying  that  he  must  mean  something  by  it 
— that  he  wouldn’t  go  give  a  twenty-guinea  jacket  to  a  girl 
unless  he  meant  to  go  farther;  but  ’tisn't  likely,  I  think, 
though  Winifred’s  genteel-looking  sort  of  girl  when  she’s 
dressed  out.” 

If  Mrs.  Caerlyon  meant  this  as  a  politic  speech,  implying 
that  Mr.  Pascoe  had  better  make  sure  of  Winifred  whilst  he 
could — his  tardy  proceedings  in  this  matter  being  a  vexation 
of  spirit  to  her,  now  especially  since  Winifred’s  salary  was 
lost — she  signally  failed.  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe,  having  a 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


73 

secret  consciousness  that,  as  a  rival  to  Captain  Tredennick, 
he  would  not  figure  very  nobly,  and  possessing  likewise  a 
great  amount  of  Uriah  Heep’s  peculiar  description  of  “  ’umble- 
ness,”  was  stung  into  a  dangerous  state  of  defiance  of  “cousin 
’Lezabeth  ”  and  everybody  else. 

“  No,  ’tesn’t  likely — ’tesn’t  very  likely,”  he  said,  sneering 
in  an  ugly  fashion  that  distorted  his  thin  lips  and  long  sharp 
nostrils — “  ’tesn’t  very  likely  that  Tredennick  o’  Tregarthen’s 
coming  to  ask  ’e  for  your  daughter;  and  ye’ll  wait  a  pretty 
good  time,  ’Lezabeth,  before  lianybody  will,  ’tis  my  opinion, 
and  so  I  tell  ’e.  Tredennick  o’  Tregarthen  dedn’t  come  after 
her  for  no  good,  as  I  heard  it  remarked,  weth  his  fine  talk 
and  his  twenty-pound  jacket  to  a  poor  maid.  And  ef  ye 
choose  to  let  her  go  to  ruin  ye  may,  and - ” 

“Hold  your  tongue!”  said  “cousin  ’Lezabeth.”  in  a  pas¬ 
sion.  “  Tredennick  o’  Tregarthen’s  never  going  to  darken 
these  doors  again;  and  the  maid  stays  at  home  and  does  her 
work,  and  what  more  would  ye  have?  If  you’d  married  the 
girl  six  months  ago,  you’d  have  no  need  to  be  watching  and 
prying  after  her  now;  and  if  you  don’t  mean  to  marry  her, 
you’d  better  hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  ye!  What’s  a  maid  but 
her  good  name?  You’d  best  not  let  John  Caerlyon  hear  ye 
taking  away  his  daughter’s  character!” 

She  filing  her  sewing-thimble,  reel,  and  scissors  violently 
into  her  basket  after  the  energetic  manner  which  the  good 
lady  affected  when  she  laboured  from  an  access  of  spleen, 
and  dashed  out  of  the  room  with  somewhat  unnecessary 
speed  and  noise. 

“  What  are  ye  keeping  the  child  out  there  for,  with  the  dew 
falling  on  her?”  she  demanded,  harshly,  from  the  porch- 
door. 

Winifred  Caerlyon,  roused  from  her  long  deep  reverie, 
withdrew  her  yearning  eyes  from  the  far  twilight  horizon  of 
the  ocean,  lost  in  the  depths  of  silvery  shrouding  haze;  she 
had  been  singing  the  “  Cradle  Song”  again  to  soothe  Louie — 

“  Over  the  roiling  water  go, 

Come  from  the  drooping  moon  and  blow — 

Blow  hfm  again,  again  to  me, 

While  my  pretty  one  sleeps — 

While  my  loved  one  sleeps !  ” 

— and  the  dark  deep  eyes  were  distended  and  glowing  with 
the  passion  of  wild  fancies  and  hopes  and  longings,  gazing 
out  over  the  wide  heaving  expanse  of  ocean  veiled  in  twilight 
shadows. 


74 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MQRNING. 

“  She  is  covered  with  my  shawl,  toamma — I  will  bring  her 
in  now.” 

The  voice  was  very  gentle  and  faint  with  weariness,  the 
quiet  face  very  white  and  patient,  the  drooping  eyelids  lan¬ 
guid  with  “the  weight  of  unshed  tears.” 

Elizabeth  Caerlyon,  shrewish  and  unloving,  had  yet  a 
heart  which  could  be  touched,  and  Thomas  Pascoe’s  late  in¬ 
sinuations  had  at  last  provoked  her  into  taking  her  step¬ 
daughter^  part. 

“  I’ve  heard  of  a  dog  in  a  manger,”  she  muttered,  partly 
audible  for  Mr.  Pascoe’s  benefit — “there  are  people  who’ll 
neither  take  a  thing  themselves,  nor  let  a  thing  be  for  other 
people!  You’ve  got  a  pretty  white  face,”  she  added,  sharply 
but  not  unkindly,  as  Winifred  passed  her  in — “  what’s  the 
matter?  ” 

“  Nothing,  mamma — I  am  tired,”  said  Winnie.  “  May  I 
go  to  bed?  ” 

“  Pascoe’s  here,”  hinted  her  step-mother,  shortly. 

There  was  a  kind  of  anguish  in  the  girl’s  haggard  look  as 
she  repeated  pleadingly — 

“  I  am  so  tired,  I  can  not  speak  to  any  one.  May  I  go  to 
bed?” 

“  Yes,  of  course!”  said  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  snappishly.  “What 
did  ye  go  working  yourself  like  that  for?  Work’d  keep,  I 
think.” 

Nevertheless  she  unlocked  a  certain  neat,  yellow-painted 
cupboard  in  the  kitchen,  took  out  a  bottle  with  a  dark  fra¬ 
grant  spirit,  carefully  mixed  a  portion  with  hot  water  and 
sugar  in  a  tumbler,  and  took  it 'upstairs  to  the  little  room 
where  the  pale  evening  light  fell  through  the  dormer  window 
on  the  patchwork  coverlet  of  the  narrow  bed  and  the  white 
face  of  the  dark-haired  girl  lying  on  the  one  small  hard 
pillow. 

“You  drink  this  now,  Winnie,”  she  said,  shortly.  “You’re 
like  one  had  got  a  chill.  It’ll  send  ye  sound  asleep.” 

“  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  mamma,”  returned  Winnie, 
struggling  up  in  surprise.  “I  am  only  tired,  though.” 

The  trembling  voice  broke  down  in  a  sob,  which  evidently 
had  not  been  the  first  since  she  had  lain  down  beneath  the 
patchwork  coverlet. 

“  What  on  earth  are  ye  crying  for?”  asked  Mrs.  Caerlyon, 
impatiently.  “  Because  you’re  not  off  at  Roseworthy,  I  sup¬ 
pose?” 

“Oh  no,  no,  no!”  Winifred  burst  out  in  stormy  weeping. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


75 


“  You  know  I’ll  never  go  there  again — never,  unless  she  came 
and  asked  me  kindly,  and  apologised  to  you  and  father. 
Madam  did  not  treat  me  as  she  ought.  I  was  sorry  a  good 
deal  after  she  went  off  so  suddenly  to  Kent  without  telling 
me — only  that  one  short  note  with  my  salary  due!  It  was  so 
unkind!” 

“  You  needn’t  waken  up  all  the  children,”  interposed  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  warningly.  “  Then,  if  you’re  not  crying  about  her, 
what  are  ye  crying  for?” 

“  I  didn’t  feel  very  well — I  don’t  know,”  Winnie  faltered, 
crying  more  quietly,  though  her  suppressed  sobs  shook  the- 
narrow  bed. 

“  Because  Pascoe’s  here?”  persisted  Mrs.  Caerlyon.  “You’re 
a  pretty  maid  to  cry  because  a  man  comes  courting  ye,”  she 
went  on,  more  jocularly.  “I  am  thinking  Susanna  Edwards 
would  give  him  a  different  welcome.” 

“Then  let  her!”  Winnie  cried,  wildly.  “Oh;  mamma, 
don’t  you  know  that  I  cannot  bear  him  like — like  that?  I 
had  rather  die  any  day.  I  shall  die  if  you  don’t  send  him 
away,  and  let  me  alone!  He  does  not  care  one  pin  for  me; 
he  wants  me  only  to  make  a  servant  of  me — and  I’d  rather 
stay  here  and  work  for  you  and  the  children.  Oh,  mother, 
do  send  him  away!”  she  wailed,  clasping  her  hands  tightly 
on  her  step-mother’s  arm. 

The  overthrow  of  her  pet  project  vexed  Mrs.  Caerlyon 
very  considerably — it  had  vexed  her  many  a  time  these  four 
months  past,  since  Winifred  had  been  summarily  dismissed 
from  Madam’s  service,  although,  to  do  her  justice,  Madam 
had  written  rather  apologetically  respecting  her  sudden 
decision  to  visit  her  relations  in  Kent,  sending  Captain  Tre- 
dennick’s  fatal  present  to  its  owner  along  with  that  short, 
satin-paper,  crested,  perfumed  note;  but  it  had  been  a  dis¬ 
missal,  and  a  pointedly  abrupt  one,  after  all,  and  hapless 
Winnie  had  met  the  brunt  of  a  storm  of  anger,  surprise, 
cross-questioning,  taunts,  and  suspicion  worse  than  aught  else 
— suspicion,  even  from  her  father,  although  John  Caerlyon 
had  been  born  and  bred  a  gentleman,  and  might  have  shrunk 
from  branding  his  daughter’s  stainless  brow  with  the  impu¬ 
tation  of  levity  of  conduct  (he  would  not  admit  that  there 
was  more  of  irritable  fatherly  anxiety  than  anything  else  in 
the  harsh  words  that  insulted  the  poor  child’s  maidenly 
pride) — suspicion  gathered  from  the  gabble  of  serpent- 
tongued  gossipers,  and  from  the  cowardly  innuendoes  of  the 
base-spirited  fellow  who  sought  to  humble  and  crush  the 


76  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

spirit  of  the  woman  whom  he  had  chosen  for  his  future  wife. 
But  all  their  persecution,  threats,  insulting  advice,  and 
prying  surveillance  never  for  one  moment  made  that  lonely, 
friendless,  sad-hearted  girl  untrue  to  herself — untrue  to  her 
heart’s  passionate  devotion.  She  never  once  took  refuge  in 
t/~e  usual  feminine  cowardice  of  the  asseveration,  “  What  do 
I  care  for  him?  He  is  nothing  to  me!”  The  steadfast  truth 
of  her  noble  womanly  nature  never  once  leaned  toward  the 
denial  of  the  accusation  which  rankled  in  the  very  depths  of 
her  innocent  virgin  soul.  Her  lips  grew  white  and  dry  with 
agony,  but  they  never  uttered  the  lie,  “  I  do  not  love  him,” 
when  they  flung  the  name  of  her  “fine  gentleman-lover,” 
Tredennick  of  Tregarthen,  at  her,  to  try  to  overwhelm  her 
with  helpless  confusion  and  shame. 

From  the  tried  shield  of  Winnie’s  brave  spirit  the  darts 
fell  powerless  that  would  have  stung  a  fierce,  impatient  spirit 
into  desperation,  or  moulded  a  feebler,  more  selfish  one  to 
tearful,  complaining  obedience,  when  she  was  openly  warned 
that  she  had  better  give  no  further  occasion  of  offence  to  her 
family;  that,  her  conduct  having  been  faulty — or  at  least 
such  that  gossip  could  find  fault  with  it,  the  tw7o  not  being  by 
any  means  a  matter  one  and  indivisible — she  would  do  well 
to  endeavour  speedily  to  set  it  as  wrell  as  herself  right  in  the 
estimation  of  the  Susanna  Edwardses  and  “  cousin  Anna 
Marias  ”  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  that  it  behooved  her  par¬ 
ticularly  to  take  care  that  her  relatives  sustained  no  loss  in 
either  pecuniary  matters  or  credit  on  her  account.  A  worthy 
young  man,  in  his  great  magnanimity,  was  willing  to  marry 
her,  and  make  her  a  respectable  matron,  with  a  decent  home 
of  her  own — a  house  with  a  spare  bed-room,  and  a  best  par¬ 
lour  wdth  haircloth  sofa! — that  is,  provided  she  showed  her¬ 
self  sensible  of  his  goodness,  gratefully  obedient  and  humble- 
minded  enough  to  meet  his  gracious  advances  half  way.  In 
this  manner  she  might  to  some  extent  atone  for  her  former 
love  of  extravagant  fine  ladies,  and  for  “running  after” 
fine  gentlemen,  w7ho  gave  her  tvrenty-guinea  presents. 

“’Twas  scandalous!”  Mr.  Pascoe  delicately  affirmed;  but 
neither  his  magnanimity  nor  his  indignation  cowred  or  influ¬ 
enced  Winifred.  Beyond  briefly  informing  him  that  she 
would  much  prefer  being  flung  over  Tregarthen  Head,  or 
down  one  of  Tolgooth’s  mine-shafts,  to  spending  her  life 
with  him,  even  if  he  were  the  Duke  of  Cornwall  himself,  she 
made  no  response  to  his  advances. 

So  her  step-mother  had  angrily  seen  day  by  day  that  her 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  77 

scheme  for  lifting  a  double  burden  off  the  household  expenses 
and  the  entire  future  provision  of  Sarah  Matilda  was  falling 
to  the  ground.  It  had  fallen  altogether  now — there  was  no 
use  in  contending  with  an  obstinate  girl  any  longer,  Mrs. 
Caerlyon  said  in  vexed  decision;  she  was  “  worth  her  keep” 
too,  decidedly,  and  there  were  more  to  be  blamed  in  the 
matter  than  Winifred. 

“  I  don’t  wonder  at  the  maid  one  bit,”  she  said,  late  that 
same  evening,  giving  Mr.  Pascoe  a  final  “  piece  of  her  mind.” 
“  I  never  saw  a  young  man  keeping  company  with  a  girl  in 
such  a  fashion.  ’Tisn’t  any  wonder  she  can’t  abear  the  sight 
of  ye!  Ye  never  asked  her  to  go  out  for  a  bit  of 
day’s  pleasuring,  and  spent  your  money  free  as  another 
young  man  would,  or  offered  her  as  much  as  a  yard  of  ribbon 
for  a  present!  Girls  can’t  bear  a  man  that’s  mean  when  he’s 
courting — and  that’s  just  the  truth  of  it,  Thomas!” 

Mr.  Pascoe  was  eating  his  supper,  and  particularly  enjoy¬ 
ing  cold  mutton  “  pasty,”  bread-and-cheese,  and  hot  gin-and- 
water;  he  restrained  his  anger  until  he  had  emptied  the 
tumbler,  and  finished  the  last  of  the  u pasty”  crust,  and  then 
he  arose  and  wiped  his  fingers  with  a  darkly  determined  air. 

“I’m  mean,  am  I,  ’Lezabeth?”  he  said,  threateningly. 
“Do  ’e  tell  me  that  Pm  mean?  I’m  mean,  am  I — because  I 
don’t  go  to  fling  my  wages  away,  buying  finery  and  stuff  o’ 
nonsense  to  please  a  girl  that  don’t  know  when  she’s  well 
off?  I  might  have  the  more  to  spend  on  your  child  for  all 
my  meanness,  ’Lezabeth — it  might  be  better  for  your  Sarah 
Matilda  if  I  was  mean,  though  I  wasn’t  mean  enough  to  re¬ 
fuse  to  give  her  the  best  my  wages  could  afford,  and  do  for 
her  as  ef  she  was  my  own — an  ’e  go  telling  of  a  man  that 
he’s  mean!  ” 

“  I  said  girls  don’t  like  a  man  to  be  mean  about  money 
when  he’s  paying  ’em  attentions,  Thomas,”  corrected  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  more  conciliatingly. 

“Well,  then,  I  tell  ’e,”  said  Mr.  Pascoe — that  worthy 
young  man’s  spirit  being  roused  to  a  pitch  of  desperation 
between  the  insult  to  his  unparalleled  generosity,  as  he  con¬ 
sidered  it,  and  the  threatened  attack  on  the  “  wages  ”  he 
loved  to  hoard  up  so  economically  in  the  county  bank — “  I 
tell  ’e  that  some  one  else  can  buy  ribbons  and  silks  for  ’eer 
daughter,  for  I  won’t — nor  have  nothen  more  to  say  to  her 
neither — an’  so  I  tell  ’e!  An’  I  told  ’e  afore  that  I’d  have 
nothen  to  say  to  a  maid  that  I  have  no  great  opinion  of! 


78  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

Winiford  can  get  ribbons  and  silks  where  she  got  other  things, 
and  I’ll  not  have  no  more  to  say  to  her!  ” 

This  awful  threat,  Mr.  Pascoe  doubted  not,  would  have  the 
satisfactory  effect  of  making  his  cousin  apologise,  assure  him 
of  her  continued  determination  to  coerce  Winifred  into 
proper  behaviour,  admire  him  for  his  prudence  and  his 
deposit  in  the  county  bank,  and  humbly  coax  him  into  more 
generous  promises  of  patronage  on  behalf  of  Sarah  Matilda. 

But  Mrs.  Caerlyon’s  spirit  was  thoroughly  roused  too;  she 
began  to  consider  that  it  was  better,  after  all,  to  have  Wini¬ 
fred’s  efficient  services  for  herself;  and  at  the  bottom  of  her 
heart  was  a  little  lurking  pity  for  her  patient  step-daughter’s 
trouble,  and  a  faint  lurking  hope  that  something  might  come 
of  it,  better  even  than  Thomas  Pascoe’s  generosity. 

“  She’ll  not  have  any  more  to  say  to  ye — so  ye  needn’t 
take  much  credit  to  yourself  in  that  way,  Thomas,”  said 
“  cousin  ’Lezabeth,”  scathingly;  “  and,  since  that’s  the  way 
ye  speak  of  her,  I’d  be  sorry  she  did.  I’ve  no  doubt  the 
maid  will  find  as  good  a  friend,  and  better  a  sweetheart  than 
you,  whoever  he’ll  be.” 

“Ah — Tredennick  o’  Tregarthen,”  sneered  Mr.  Pascoe, 
driving  his  hands  nearly  through  his  coat-pockets  in  his  jeal¬ 
ous  rage. 

“Well,”  said  “cousin  ’Lezabeth,”  keeping  the  “whip- 
hand”  with  calm  superiority  still,  “what  of  it,  Thomas? 
Tredennick  o’  Tregarthen  might  look  lower  than  John  Caer¬ 
lyon’s  daughter.  A  lef tenant  in  the  Royal  Navy  is  as  good 
as  the  captain  of  a  merchantman,  any  day,  Thomas  Pascoe; 
and  I  am  not  very  sure,  Thomas  Pascoe,  that  any  of  Lef  ten¬ 
ant  Caerlyon’s  daughters  need  go  a-begging  for  husbands — 
nor  I  am  not  very  sure,  Thomas  Pascoe,”  continued  his 
offended  relative  with  frightful  iteration,  as  her  temper  rose 
higher,  “that  Winifred  Caerlyon  could  not  marry  as  good  as 
a  mine-purser  any  day — and  so  I  tell  ye!  ” 

Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe  thought  of  his  house  with  the  spare 
bed-room  and  best  parlour  with  haircloth  sofa,  of  his  deposit 
account  at  the  bank  and  his  generous  intentions  regarding 
Sarah  Matilda,  and  could  scarcely  believe  his  senses.  But 
“  cousin  ’Lezabeth  ”  thoroughly  looked  as  if  she  meant  what 
she  said;  and  when  she  went  into  Winifred’s  room  before 
retiring  to  rest,  and  saw  the  weary  look  on  the  thin,  white, 
sleeping  face,  and  the  dark  wet  eyelashes — even  in  her 
dreams  the  girl  was  oppressed  with  sadness — she  would  have 
spoken  the  “  piece  of  her  mind  ”  over  again  if  need  be. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING*  7Q 

•  ^ 

“The  maid  looks,”  said  she  with  some  troubled  anxiety— 
“the  maid  looks  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking!  ” 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“Aunt  Vivian,  I  always  considered  you  to  be  a  person 
possessed  of  excellent  taste.” 

“  Indeed,  Mildred  love — have  you  had  any  reason  to  change 
your  opinion?” 

Miss  Tredennick  rose  slowly,  and  with  deliberate  grace, 
from  the  velvet  sofa  on  which  she  had  been  reclining,  walked 
#over  to  the  mirror  and  arranged  a  crushed  braid  of  her  dark 
rich  chestnut  hair  with  greater  effect  before  she  replied. 

“  Rather.  I  understood  that  that  little  companion  of  yours 
was  quite  a  pretty,  interesting  young  creature.” 

*  “Did  I  say  so,  Mildred?”  Madam  Vivian  asked,  turning 
round  from  the  dressing-table  where  Miss  Trewhella  was 
meekly  and  silently  arranging  her  mistress’s  beautiful  silvery 
hair  and  lace  head-dress. 

“You  implied  so,”  responded  Miss  Tredennick,  carelessly 
— Madam  never  awed  her,  or  made  her  nervous;  “  I  under¬ 
stood  that  she  was  a  clever,  lady-like,  intelligent,  pretty  girl. 
She  did  not  seem  to  me  to  be  anything  but  a  common,  poor 
country  girl,  like  a  servant.” 

“  She  was  looking  terribly  poor  and  shabby  to-day, 
Madam,”  interposed  Miss  Trewhella,  with  a  simper;  “  Miss 
Mild - Miss  Tredennick  was  quite  surprised.” 

“I  never  said  that  she  was  pretty — never  thought  so,” 
Madam  said,  coldly;  “but  she  was  my  companion,  who  sat  at 
my  table,  Mildred;  therefore  it  was  impossible  that  she  could 
be  a  servant.” 

“  Oh,  then  it  was  you  who  gave  me  the  impression  of  her 
being  clever,  and  attractive,  and  showy,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,”  said  Mildred  Tredennick,  turning  to  Trewhella,  and  re¬ 
peating,  to  the  lady’s-maid’s  consternation,  with  placid  uncon¬ 
cern,  what  she  hoped  “the  young  lady  ”  had  listened  to  as  a 
confidential  communication.  “  I  imagined  her,”  added  Madam 
Vivian’s  niece,  “to  be  quite  a  peculiar,  bewitching-looking 
girl — a  clever,  actress-like,  intriguing  young  woman.” 

“  Oh,  Miss  Mildr — Miss  Tredennick!  I  beg  your  pardon — 
I  never—”  began  Miss  Trewhella,  breathlessly. 


80  ALL  in  the  wild  march  morning. 

“  Trewhella!”  cried  her  mistress,  with  a  haughty  turn  of 
her  head. 

“  A  clever,  actress-like,  intriguing  young  woman,”  repeated 
Miss  Tredennick,  “  who  inveigled  my  cousin,  Captain  Tre- 
dennick,  into  admiring  her  excessively.” 

“  What  have  you  been  saying  to  Miss  Tredennick?”  de¬ 
manded  Madam,  with  an  imperious  flash  of  her  cold,  brilliant 
eyes  on  the  unlucky  abigail,  who  betook  herself  to  her  usual 
protection  of  tears  and  sniffs  in  an  affecting  manner. 

“I  never  said  anything  to — to — Miss  Mildred,  Ma — Ma — 
dam — never;  only  that  the  Captain  admired  Miss  Winnie’s 
hair — he  said  it  was  so  lo — long — I’m  sure  ’twasn’t  anything 
so — so — particular  to  look  at.  I  dare  say  he  was  making  fun 
when  he  praised  it.” 

“You  have  no  right  to  suppose  anything  of  the  kind,”  said 
her  mistress,  sharply;  “  Winnie  Caerlyon  has  the  most  beauti¬ 
ful  hair  I  ever  saw.” 

a  And  did  cousin  Stephen  admire  her?”  persisted  Mildred, 
with  a  proud,  lazy  smile,  looking  from  her  aunt  to  the  injured  , 
Miss  Trewhella,  to  whom  the  capricious  young  lady  had 
taken  a  haughty  dislike. 

“Indeed  he  did,”  said  Madam,  with  an  admirable  air  of 
frankness  and  candour.  “He  told  me  that  he  thought  her 
such  a  nice,  modest,  sensible  little  creature  and  pretty  too, 
he  said.  I  laughed  so  at  him!  But  sailors  are  very  gallant, 
and  have  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  the  smallest  particle 
of  female  beauty,  you  know,  Mildred.” 

“I  always  thought  cousin  Stephen  particularly  gallant,” 
rejoined  Mildred  betaking  herself  to  the  sofa  again;  “a 
good-natured  old  fellow  he  always  was,  and  bought  a  pony 
for  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  but  he  never  seemed  to  notice 
pretty  girls  or  ugly  girls,  except  to  tell  me  once  that  I  should 
have  made  a  much  better  boy  than  I  did  a  girl.” 

“Stephen  has  not  seen  you  since  you  were  in  the  school¬ 
room,”  said  Madam,  with  a  peculiar  smile.  “  I  have  no  doubt 
but  that  you  will  find  him  less  insensible  now  in  the  matter 
of  handsome  faces  and  plain  ones.” 

Mildred  listened  in  silence,  her  brows  elevated,  and  her 
haughty  chiselled  lips  turning  in  a  sarcastic  smile. 

“Oh,  is  that  it?”  she  returned,  with  a  provoking  air  of 
nonchalance .  “Well,  I  also  am  less  insensible  in  the  matter 
of  handsome  faces  and  plain  ones,  chere  tante ,  and  have  my 
own  ideal  views  on  the  subject.” 

“Indeed!”  exclaimed  Madam,  quickly,  glancing  with  a  eer- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 


81 


tain  involuntary  apprehension  at  handsome,  self-willed  Mil¬ 
dred  Tredennick,  who,  by  her  imperious  temper  and  inflexible 
will,  and  in  later  years  by  those  brilliant  unabashed  eyes  of 
hers  and  her  proud  beauty,  had  ruled,  monarch  of  all  she  sur¬ 
veyed,  from  her  earliest  infant  days,  when  vexed  nurses  pro¬ 
nounced  her  “  a  child  that  no  one  could  manage,”  to  the  hour 
when  her  last  governess  said  in  despair  that  “  Miss  Treden¬ 
nick  would  do  just  as  she  pleased”  about  music  or  drawing 
lessons. 

Miss  Tredennick  did  as  she  pleased  about  most  things;  and 
there  were  some  unpleasant  foreshadowings  in  the  hearts  of 
her  prudent  relatives  that  Miss  Tredennick  would  continue  to 
do  as  she  pleased  in  a  manner  that  might  prove  very  unsatis¬ 
factory  to  them.  In  fact,  this  visit  to  the  seclusion  of  Rose¬ 
worthy  and  consignment  to  the  guardianship  of  her  careful, 
clever,  aristocratic  aunt — not  quite  palatable  to  the  independ¬ 
ent  young  lady — was  a  preventive  measure  agreed  upon  in 
a  secret  council  of  the  prudent  relatives  aforesaid — Miss  Tre- 
dennick’s  peevish,  fussy,  pompous  father,  and  her  handsome, 
vain,  easy-going  mother,  and  a  stiff,  sensible,  worldly  cousin, 
and  graceful,  gracious  aunt  Vivian,  with  a  will  nearly  as 
strong  as  her  own,  and  a  diplomatic  ability  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  an  ambassador.  There  was  nothing  to  be  ap¬ 
prehended — oh,  nothing,  of  course!  Only  Mildred  was  so 
odd,  and  had  such  strong  opinions  and  pronounced  feelings 
for  a  girl  of  eighteen! 

“  Ridiculous,  you  know!  ”  said  the  easy-going  mother. 

“  Shocking — provoking!  I’ve  a  good  mind  to— to — just 
to - ”  broke  out  the  peevish  father. 

“  Bad  style  for  a  young  lady,”  observed  Madam  Vivian 
placidly,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

It  was  nothing  serious  of  course!  The  idea  was  absurd! 
But  those  boy-and-girl  attachments  sometimes  hung  on,  and 
occasioned  awkwardness  and  unpleasantness.  There  was  some 
boy-and-girl  nonsense  between  Mildred  and  young  Gardiner; 
there  was  no  denying  it — the  sensible  cousin  had  noticed  it, 
the  easy-going  mother  had  noticed  it,  Madam  Vivian  had 
noticed  it. 

“  There  must  be  no  attempt  at  anger  or  expostulation, 
Madam,”  counselled  the  peevish  father,  who  was  for  trying 
the  time-honoured  expedient  with  wilful  damsels  of  “  locking 
her  up  in  her  own  room.” 

“  You  want  her  to  run  off  with  Albert  Gardiner  the  next 
dark  night,”  warned  Madam,  coolly. 


82 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  He — he  wouldn’t  dare!”  spluttered  the  peevish  father. 

“  Perhaps  not,”  said  Madam,  smiling,  “  hut  Mildred 
would.  She’d  make  him  run  away  with  her  if  she  chose.” 

So  Madam  counselled,  and  they  waited,  until  bright-eyed 
fair-haired  Bertie  Gardiner  went  away  with  his  regiment — the 
most  winsome  youngster  that  ever  carried  a  flag.  And  then 
Madam  took  self-willed  Mildred  away,  with  the  understand¬ 
ing  from  the  secret  council  that  she  was  to  be  introduced  to 
society,  made  accomplished  and  elegant,  taught  the  value  of 
her  own  beauty  and  fortune,  and  kept  under  Madam’s  super¬ 
vision  until  she  had  safely  disposed  of  her  in  marriage. 

Astute,  politic  Madam  Vivian  had  her  own  views  in  the 
arrangement,  which  the  shorter-sighted  members  of  the 
council  did  not  perceive. 

“  So  that’s  it,  is  it?”  repeated  Miss  Trewhella  to  herself, 
copying  Miss  Tredennick’s  clear  imperious  accents — as  she 
fondly  hoped,  very  accurately — as  she  folded  up  sundry  arti¬ 
cles  of  Miss  Tredennick’s  wardrobe,  and  put  that  negligent 
young  lady’s  apartment  “  to  rights  ”  for  the  fourth  time  that 
day.  “  I  wondered  what  Madam  was  going  to  trouble  her¬ 
self  with  a  young  lady  for — one  as  proud  and  obstinate  as 
herself  too — and  why  she  wouldn’t  have  Winnie  Caerlyon 
any  more.  6  Miss  Tredennick  will  be  sufficient  company  for 
me,’  says  she.  I  wish  her  joy  of  her  management  of  Miss 
Tredennick;  she’s  met  her  match  now,  sure  enough.  I  won¬ 
der  what’ll  he  think?”  pursued  Miss  Trewhella,  disentangling 
the  hooks  of  a  velvet  bodice  from  a  heap  of  lace  collars,  and 
picking  a  gray  Parisian  kid  glove  out  of  the  meshes  of  a 
Cluny  lace-covered  parasol.  “  Admire  her,  I  suppose.  She 
is  grand  and  stylish-looking,  I’ll  allow;  and  my!  doesn’t  she 
know  it!  Why  shouldn’t  she  be  grand  and  stylish-looking?” 
continued  the  waiting-woman,  plaintively,  holding  up  a  lace- 
trimmed  cambric  wrapper.  “  The  money  she  spends!  Fifty 
pounds  this  last  fortnight  on  that  box  of  things  from  Paris, 
and  sovereigns  here  and  there!” 

Miss  Trewhella  turned  over  the  contents  of  glove-boxes 
and  dressing  cases,  strewing  the  toilet-table  with  a  medley  of . 
ribbons,  jewels,  perfumes,  fans,  gloves,  and  loose  silver, 
thrown  there  by  Mildred  Tredennick’s  careless,  royally  lav¬ 
ish,  indifferent  hands;  tried  on  some  gold  bracelets  and  pearl 
hair-pins,  and  sighed  as  she  looked  in  the  glass  and  thought 
of  the  unkindness  of  Fortune  in  not  giving  her  eight  hun¬ 
dred  a  year  in  her  own  right,  and  thus  enabling  her  to  look 
as  grand  and  distinguished  a  lady  as  Mildred  Tredennick. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


83 


“ She’s  not  stingy  either,  I’ll  allow,”  she  admitted;  “that 
blue  silk  of  mine  wasn’t  a  bad  present.  He  might  do  a  great 
deal  worse — she’ll  make  a  grand,  fashionable,  stylish  wife  for 
Trcdennick  of  Tregarthen.” 

She  paused  a  minute  to  admire  a  beautiful  pale-yellow 
linen  summer  costume,  with  malachite  and  gold  buttons,  and 
tittered  a  little  to  herself. 

“Poor  Winnie  Caerlyon!”  she  said,  with  an  intense 
amount  of  smiling  pity.  “  She  has  a  great  chance  against 
Mildred  Tredennick  to  be  sure!” 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  first  snow  of  the  new  year  had  fallen,  and  lay  as  a 
pure,  soft  shroud  over  the  bare  fields  and  uplands,  feathering 
with  flaky  whiteness  all  the  black,  leafless  branches  of  the 
wintry  woods.  Softly  and  lightly  it  had  fallen  on  the  dark, 
iron-bound  roads,  frozen  through  long  days  and  weeks  of 
bitter  cold  and  dull  leaden  skies;  but  enough  lay  even  on  that 
bleak  high  road  by  Tregarthen  Head  to  mark  where  foot¬ 
steps  had  newly  passed  before  Winnie  Caerlyon,  and  to  leave 
the  traces  behind  of  her  own  quick,  light  footfalls. 

The  red  gold  of  the  western  sunlight  shone  in  level  rays 
across  the  snowy  landscape,  the  calm  wintry  afternoon  was 
waning  fast,  and  the  quick,  light  footfalls  of  the  little  figure 
hurrying  homewards  were  weary  enough,  returning  from  an 
errand  of  some  miles’  distance.  It  made  the  way  longer  to 
go  up  the  long  lane  of  Mennacarthen  and  take  in  the  angle 
of  the  Tolgooth  mine-road,  and  the  snow  lay  deep  between 
the  high  hedges  of  the  narrow  by-road;  yet  the  hurrying 
little  figure  chose  that  way,  and  the  quick  steps  grew  slower 
and  slower,  until  they  paused  altogether;  and  in  the  waning 
sunlight,  amidst  the  drifted  snow,  Winnie  Caerlyon  crept 
beneath  the  dark  shadow  of  the  great  overgrown  masses  of 
holly  and  laurel  that  clustered  behind  the  moss-covered 
pillars  of  the  Tregarthen  gates. 

She  had  a  fancy  for  taking  this  long,  lonely,  roundabout 
Mennacarthen  Lane  in  her  way,  whenever  it  was  possible; 
she  had  a  fancy  for  standing  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  gloomy 
shadow  of  the  great,  shining,  evergreen  branches;  she  had  a 
fancy  for  looking  at  that  shut-up,  siient,  zumous  old  mansion 
across  the  neglected  lawn. 


84 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAEGH  MOENING. 


It  was  to  "gratify  these  foolish  little  fancies  that  she  had 
hurried  through  the  chill  red  sunlight  and  the  crisp,  drifted 
snow;  and,  in  the  pleasure  of  the  gratification,  she  felt  neither 
the  cold  of  the  snow  nor  the  frosty  afternoon  air  as  she  stood 
looking,  with  a  curious  interest  in  her  eyes,  at  that  silent  house 
and  ground — one  unspotted  sheet  of  dazzling  snow,  save  where 
the  shadowed  marking  of  a  double  line  of  footsteps  dotted 
the  winding  avenue. 

Everything  about  the  dreary  old  place  possessed  an  inter¬ 
est  for  this  foolish,  lonely  little  maid,  peering  wistfully  in. 
It  was  toe  of  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  greatest  enjoyments,  this  si¬ 
lent  flitting  up  Mennacartlien  Lane,  and  looking  in  at  the 
Tregarthen  gates.  The  number  of  the  shuttered  windows 
had  an  interest  for  her;  the  old  time-defaced  statues  and  si¬ 
lent,  weed-grown  pond  and  fountain  were  pleasant  to  her 
eyes;  the  coral-jewelled  holly-trees  were  more  beautiful  than 
the  rest  of  their  species;  nay,  the  snow  looked  whiter  and 
lovelier,  gleaming  in  the  red  sunlight  across  the  lawn  and  av¬ 
enue,  than  elsewhere.  She  always  went  home  happier  after 
having  had  her  look  at  Tregarthen;  it  was  like  hearing  of 
him  whose  face  was  ever  before  her,  like  being  in  his  pres¬ 
ence  for  a  few  moments,  the  poor  little  maid’s  fond  soul  whis¬ 
pered  to  itself — her  lips  would  not  dare  to  put  her  thought 
into  words — like  hearing  that  he  was  living,  and  well,  and 
happy  far  away  over  the  sea — she  heard  no  word  of  news  in 
any  other  way — hearing  of  him,  the  hero  of  the  idyl  of  her 
life. 

Was  it  the  prescience  of  a  coming  crisis  of  fate  that  kept 
Winnie  Caerlyon  lingering  there,  her  little  hands  grasping 
the  cold,  frost-rimed  iron  bars,  gazing  with  a/dreamy  smile 
at  the  old  home  of  the  Tredennicks,  and  pondering  curiously 
whose  could  be  the  footsteps  that  had  disturbed  the  thin 
white  crust  of  frozen  snow,  while  the  last  faint  rosy  smile  of 
the  winter  sun  drew  farther  away,  and,  leaving  her  in  the 
cold  gray  evening  light,  shot  his  parting  rays  of  level  crimson 
radiance  upon  the  boles  of  the  old  chestnut  trees  and  gnarled 
oaks,  and  athwart  the  windings  of  the  snow-clad  avenue? 

Brightly,  radiantly,  indeed,  they  shone,-  for  to  Winnie  Ca¬ 
erlyon’s  dazzled  gaze  they  seemed  to  illumine  suddenly  a 
mass  of  rich  colour  and  glistening  sheen  like  the  hues  of  an 
exotic  blossom  or  the  plumage  of  a  gorgeous  bird,  glowing 
on  the  amber  and  crimson  hues,  the  festooned  velvet  robes 
of  a  woman’s  rich  and  beautiful  apparel — gleaming  on  'dainty 
lacquered  boots,  slim,  close-fitting  furred  jacket,  coquettish 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MuttNING.  85 

velvet  hat  with  its  tuft  of  crimson  and  amber  feathers  stir¬ 
ring  in  the  keen  frosty  breeze. 

Fondly  the  pale  red  sun  lingered  and  shimmered  here  and 
there  about  the  tall  swaying  graceful  form  ere  he  sank  to  rest 
in  his  western  ocean-bed,  as  if  he  sought  to  exhibit  to  the 
companion  who  walked  beside  her  each  hidden  beauty  that 
his  admiring  eyes  had  not  yet  discovered — the  glow  and  flash 
of  proud  bright  eyes,  the  peachy  flush  painting  the  pure, 
smooth  cheek,  the  dainty  ear,  the  firm,  rounded  chin,  the 
golden-bronze  of  her  masses  of  shining  hair,  the  gleaming 
pearly  teeth,  the  ripe,  curving  lips.  Winifred  Caerlyon  did 
not  miss  one  detail  of  that  proud  rare  beauty  in  the  very 
flush  of  its  spring-time  of  youth,  wealth,  and  high  spirits, 
with  the  added  charms  of  all  that  wealth,  indulgence,  and  an 
imperial  self-will  could  bestow  to  make  it  almost  perfect. 

The  beautiful  young  lady  of  her  reverential  admiration — 
looking  more  beautiful  than  ever  now — looking  so  evidently 
to  him  who  walked  beside  her,  with  his  admiring  gaze  fixed 
on  the  proud,  lovely  face,  his  smile  serenely  bright  as  he  re¬ 
sponded  to  hers,  all  his  regard  devoted  to  notice  her  slightest 
gesture,  to  catch  the  least  word  that  fell  from  those  rosy, 
scornful-curving  lips,  to  re-echo  the  merry  laughter  of  that 
clear,  ringing  voice.  Oh,  how  beautiful — how  lovable- — how 
worthy  of  all  honour,  all  regard,  all  dearest,  highest  affection 
must  she  be — young,  lovely,  beloved,  gifted,  well-born, 
wealthy,  enviable  Mildred  Tredennick! 

For  one  moment  the  passionate  fire  of  a  jealous  despair 
leaped  into  the  patient  white  face  and  the  gray  eyes  of  the 
girl  standing  without  in  the  cold  shadow  and  drifted  snow 
booking  in  upon  those  two  figures  in  the  sunshine — stalwart, 
handsome,  gallant,  smiling  Stephen  Tredennick,  and  the  fair 
imperial  woman  who  was  the  object  of  his  devoted  lover-like 
attention — and  then  a  darker  shadow  than  that  of  the  cluster¬ 
ing  laurels  fell  on  her  stricken  brow,  a  numb  cold  weight 
seemed  to  fall  on  her  trembling  limbs,  her  hands  relaxed 
their  rigid  hold  of  the  cold  iron  bars,  and  through  the  cold 
frosty  evening  shades  Winnie  Caerlyon  stole  swiftly  away. 

With  a  dull  heavy  throbbing  at  her  heart,  a  dull  intangible 
pain  quivering  through  her  very  soul,  with  compressed  lips 
and  hands  clasped  tightly  over  her  breast,  as  one  who  tries  to 
stifle  the  anguish  of  a  mortal  inward  wound,  she  sped  swiftly 
on  in  bewildered  haste,  scarce  knowing  whither  that  familiar 
road  by  Tregarthen  Head  was  leading  her,  seeing  nothing  but 
those  two  figures  i u  the  sunlight^  hearing  nothing  but  the 


86 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


echo  of  Mildred  Tredennick’s  clear  imperious  tones.  In  her 
dizzy  confusion  of  thought  and  vision,  she  almost  imagined 
that  she  encountered  them  again  face  to  face  at  the  cross-road 
leading  to  Tolgootli  mines,  and  shrank  breathlessly  aside  from 
the  pair  that  stood  in  converse  together. 

’  “  My  word,  Miss  Caerlyon,  you’re  enough  to  give  one  a 
start,  positively!”  and  in  alarm,  partly  real  and  partly  simu¬ 
lated,  Miss  Trewhella  caught  up  her  silk  flounces  in  her 
lemon-coloured  kid-gloved  hands,  and  whirled  around  with  a 
sharp  little  scream,  as  Winnie  passed  close  beside  her.  “  Now 
didn’t  she  give  you  a  start,  Mr.  Pascoe,  too?  I  am  sure  I 
never  saw  or  heard  her  coming!” 

Acquainted  as  Winnie  had  hitherto  been  with  the  fashion¬ 
able  waiting-woman’s  resources  in  the  way  of  effective  toi¬ 
lettes,  her  information  had  evidently  fallen  far  short  of  Miss 
Trewhella’s  ability  in  this  direction;  and  she  gazed  con¬ 
fusedly  at  the  splendid  apparition,  in  order  to  make  sure  that 
her  unsteady  sight  and  fast-throbbing  brain  had  not  misled 
her  as  to  the  identity  of  the  person  attired  in  rich  black  silks 
and  velvets,  a  gold  chain,  and  the  long-coveted  silky  jet-black 
Astrakhan  furs. 

Miss  Trewhella’s  hair  was  crimped  and  curled,  Miss  Tre¬ 
whella’s  complexion  had  the  most  extraordinary,  charming 
blending  of  roses  and  lilies  in  lieu  of  its  usual  sallowness,  and 
one  lemon-gloved  hand  held  a  fragile  lace  mouchoir ,  most 
delicately  perfumed  with  essence  of  wood-violet. 

Winnie  glanced  from  her  to  Mr.  Pascoe,  whose  gracious 
countenance  wore  an  awkward,  detected  expression. 

“Evening,  Winiford,”  said  he,  sulkily  kicking  the  snow 
about  with  his  boot. 

“I  did  not  rise  out  of  the  earth,  or  drop  down  from  the 
sky,”  observed  Winnie,  coldly,  in  reply  to  Miss  Trewhella’s 
exclamation.  “  I  saw  you  both  standing  here  as  I  came  over 
from  the  cliff  road^” 

“  Ah,  yes,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  recovering  herself  with  a 
genteel  cough  and  smile,  “we  were  talking,  Miss  Caerlyon 
— Mr.  Pascoe  and  I.” 

The  gentleman,  hearing  himself  alluded  to,  looked  up, 
more  sulkily,  if  possible. 

“I  was  speakin’  a  few  words  to  Miss  Trewhella,”  explained 
he,  shortly  and  roughly,  as  if  to  deprive  the  conversation  of 
any  complimentary  significance  with  which  the  lady  strove 
to  invest  it;  “  she  were  a-tellin’  me  the  news.” 

“Ah,  yes,”  the  lady  responded,  smiling  sweetly;  “I  was 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


87 


just  saying  to  Mr.  Pascoe  that  it  is  such  a  pleasant  thing — so 
suitable — quite  charming' indeed — and  one  gets  sadly  lonely 
at  Roseworthy;  but  now  we  have  a  pleasant  prospect.  Visi¬ 
tors,  and  so  forth,  you  know,  Miss  Caerlyon,  make  a  great 
change.” 

“  Oh,  certainly,”  said  Winifred,  nodding  a  slight  adieu,  and 
endeavouring  to  hurry  on,  but  the  lady  of  the  silk  flounces 
continued,  in  a  brisker  tone  of  animation — 

“And  indeed,  Miss  Caerlyon,  you’re  missed — you  were 
always  so  quick  with  your  hands,  and  so  ready.  As  I  often 
say  to  Mrs.  Grose,  ‘Dear  me,  if  Miss  Winnie  was  here,  we 
should  give  her  plenty  to  do.’  A  wedding  makes  such  work 
and  bother  and  fuss!  ”  and  she  tittered  affectedly  behind  the 
lace  handkerchief,  glancing  over  it  at  Mr.  Thomas  Pascoe,  as 
she  had  seen  Madam  Vivian  do  with  her  fan;  but  she  made 
no  further  impression  on  that  polite  young  man  than  to  make 
him  turn  still  more  of  his  shoulder  towards  her,  and  kick  the 
snow  until  it  flecked  her  dainty  skirts  and  wetted  her  boots. 

“A  wedding!”  cried  Winnie;  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
the  chill,  dark  wintry  afternoon  closed  around  her  in  a  sud¬ 
den  pall  of  night — as  if  the  ocean  surges  roared  and  thun¬ 
dered  in  her  ears. 

“  Yes,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  with  an  air  of  excessive  as¬ 
tonishment,  belied  by  the  saucy  smile  of  her  hard  black  eyes; 
and  Mr.  Pascoe  lifted  his  foxy  face  from  the  contemplation 
of  his  thick  mine-boots,  and  grinned  in  a  malevolent  manner, 
looking  at  Winifred  with  an  elaborate  pretence  of  indifference 
from  beneath  half-closed  eyelids.  “You’ve  not  heard,  Miss 
Winnie?  ”  continued  the  lady’s  maid.  “  Really,  I’m  sur¬ 
prised!  And  stories  like  that  do  go  so  fast!  ” 

“  ’Twas  all  over  Tolgooth  to-day,  when  he  brought  her 
through  the  works,”  Mr.  Pascoe  put  in,  with  the  same  disa¬ 
greeable  smile,  eyeing  a  stone  on  the  roadway  as  if  he  meant 
to  ascertain  its  chemical  proportions  by  sight.  “  A  fine  girl 
she  is,  too — shows  the  man  has  good  taste.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Pascoe,”  Miss  Trewhella  responded, 
having  much  recourse  to  fluttering  of  the  lace  handkerchief, 
and  tittering  behind  it;  “  and  you  show  your  taste,  too.  Ha! 
ha!  Really  she’s  a  fine,  tall,  stylish  young  lady,  as  you  say, 
Mr.  Pascoe,  that  will  do  a  man  credit.  Ha!  ha!  Really 
you’re  too  bad,  Mr.  Pascoe.  But  it’s  a  fact  that  gentlemen 
do  seem  to  run  after  tall,  fashionable-looking  women;”  and 
Miss  Trewhella  smiled  slightly,  drew  hfcrself  up  to  her  full. 


88 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


tall  height,  rustled  her  fashionable  silks  and  furs,  and  cast 
her  eyes  modestly  down. 

Darker,  darker  grew  the  chill  wintry  pall  of  a  strange 
misty  night,  louder  beat  the  surging  tide  of  heart  and  brain, 
as  Winnie  Caerlyon  stood  still  and  calm,  unmoved  in  torture, 
defeating  all  the  malicious  pleasure  of  her  unworthy  foes. 

“  You  are  alluding  to  Miss  Tredennick,  I  suppose?”  she 
said,  her  voice  only  a  little  harder  and  sharj)er  than  usual. 
“  She  is  very  handsome.” 

“Yes,”  observed  Mr.  Pascoe  in  reply,  although  she  had 
neither  addressed  nor  looked  at  him,  smacking  his  lips  as  he 
spoke,  and  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets;  “  she’s  some- 
then  worth  lookin’  at — a  fine  young  woman!” 

“  And  the  Captain  thinks  exactly  as  you  do,  Mr.  Pascoe,” 
Miss  Trewhella  cried,  giggling  excessively.  “  It’s  queer  you 
didn’t  hear  of  it,  Miss  Caerlyon;  it’s  quite  a  charming 
match.” 

And  Winifred  Caerlyon  replied,  very  calmly  still,  with 
even  the  quiver  of  a  smile  on  the  composed  pale  endurance 
of  her  face,  “Yes,  it  is  a  very  suitable  match;  Miss  Treden¬ 
nick  is  very  handsome,”  bade  them  both  good  evening,  and 
walked  swiftly  away. 

Puzzled  wrinkles  came  on  Mr.  Pascoe’s  narrow  forehead. 

“  I  shouldn’t  have  thought  that  Miss  Winnie  would  have 
liked  to  hear  tell  of  your  news,  Miss  Trewhella;  but  she 
doesn’t  seem  to  mind.  She  was  always  a  queer,  silent  maid, 
without  much  to  say  for  herself.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  waiting-woman,  with  disappointed  enmity, 
“  she  pretends  very  well;  but  I’ve  no  doubt  it’s  a  pretty  hard 
blow  to  her.” 

Hard  enough  to  strike  her  to  the  earth — hard  enough  to 
strike  her  down  there  by  the  cold  gray  sea,  where  the  drifted 
snow  lay  deep  and  white,  veiling  the  black,  cruel  rocks  in 
cold  wraith-like  softness;  and  gladly,  with  the  gladness  of 
morbid  misery,  would  she  have  felt  it  enfold  her  prostrate 
form,  her  outstretched  hands  and  rigid  face  with  the  chill, 
suffocating  softness  of  a  shroud.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would 
enwrap  and  soothe  her  into  the  cold,  calm  peace  of  Death’s 
sound  sleep;  for  she  said,  “  It  is  better  for  me  to  die  than  to 
live.” 

And  yet,  if  the  stricken  girl — the  bright,  sweet,  tremulous 
dawning  of  whose  young- womanhood  had  darkened  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  into  impenetrable  night — the  few  pale,  pure  flowers  of 
whose  tender,  sacredly  loved  andguardedRopes  were  crushed 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


89 


into  remorseless,  disfigured  ruin — had  been  asked  what  it  was 
that  she  had  lost  and  was  mourning  for  with  tearless  eyes  and 
bleeding  heart,  she  could  not,  if  she  would,  have  made  reply 
intelligent  to  other  than  Him  who  reads  the  heart,  and  to 
whom  the  anguished  ejaculation,  the  wild,  incoherent  petition, 
the  fragmentary  prayer  broken  by  convulsive  trembling  lips, 
are  the  clear  translation  of  the  hidden  language  of  the  soul, 
which  no  man  born  of  men  can  read,  and  say  with  certainty, 
“  This  is  the  interpretation  thereof.” 

Was  it  a  presumptuous,  ambitious,  unmaidenly  love,  and 
its  speedy,  well-merited  punishment?  Was  it  the  wild,  ro¬ 
mantic  folly  of  a  passionate,  half  educated  girl,  who  flung 
away  all  the  treasure  of  her  young  heart  in  exchange  for  a 
stranger’s  transient  liking,  transient  admiration,  and  transient 
caresses?  Ah,  poor  little  friendless,  unloved  girl,  your  pity¬ 
ing,  guardian  angel  gave  it  a  nobler  name! 

It  had  been  the  idyl — tender,  imaginative — of  a  common¬ 
place,  work-a-day-world  existence — the  poem — the  passionate, 
harmonious  embodiment  of  the  song,  the  melody  of  which 
stirred  the  enthusiastic  girlish  soul  all  through  its  slumbering 
life,  it  had  been  a  beautiful  erring  worship,  a  fond  false 
faith,  a  devoted  mistaken  creed.  She  had  treasured  it  as  a 
jewel  of  great  price  and  beauty,  to  be  looked  at,  cherished, 
delighted  in,  in  those  rare  sweet  hours  of  freedom  when  the 
shrewish  step-mother,  the  seven  noisy  children,  the  small, 
over-crowded  home,  the  hard  work,  the  hard  words,  her 
father’s  frowns,  Thomas  Pascoe’s  detested  presence,  had  all 
as  it  were  passed  away,  and  left  her  alone  and  peacefully 
happy  by  her  young  mother’s  grave  in  Trewillian  churchyard, 
or  singing  the  plaintive  lullaby  for  little  Louie,  when;  from 
the  little  dormer-window  looking  seawards,  there  floated 
down  on  the  wide  expanse  of  rippling  waters  lost  in  the 
silver  mists  of  the  far  horizon,  the  yearning  breath  of  the 
tender  words — 

“  Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  Western  Sea.” 

It  had  been  something  to  think  of  in  her  meek  maiden 
prayers,  with  an  added  voiceless  petition — something  to  pon¬ 
der  in  timid  wonderment  and  sad  tender  yearning,  when  she 
knelt  beside  her  mother’s  grave  in  Trewillian  churchyard, 
washed  the  simple  slab,  cut  the  waving  grass,  softly,  care¬ 
fully,  with  loving  painstaking,  as  though  she  were  fashioning 
a  garment  for  the  quiet  sleeper’s  wear,  and  kissed — “  Wini¬ 
fred,  the  beloved  wife  of  John  Caerlyon.” 


90 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


She  wondered  so  if  “  mother”  knew — knew  him — him  whom 
her  child  loved.  She  had  whispered  it  so  often  down  amongst 
the  daisy  roots  and  clustering  mosses,  she  wondered  did 
“  mother”  know — know  that  upon  the  lonely  altar  a  fire  was 
kindled,  upon  the  snowy  tablet  a  name  was  graven  deep  and 
dark,  upon  “  the  virgin  page,*  pure  and  unwritten,”  was  in¬ 
scribed  an  undying  story,  in  the  empty  heart-temple  was 
niched  an  idol — a  brave,  beautiful,  kind,  beloved,  worshipped 
idol,  glorified  by  her  fond  womanly  love,  reverenced  by  her 
childish  timid  devotion.  And  now — now  it  was  all  over— 
the  idyl  profaned,  the  harmony  turned  to  harshest  discord, 
the  worship  annihilated — the  god  of  her  idolatry  had  fallen 
and  crushed  her! 

Alas  !  she  had  never  even  the  right  to  worship,  to  treasure 
sacredly,  to  believe  in,  to  devote  herself  to  that  idol — simply 
no  right.  She  was  but  intruding  her  ignorant  thoughts,  her 
ridiculous  devotion,  her  absurd  affection,  where  her  j>resump- 
tuous  feet  had  led  her  to  stray — where  she,  and  her  love  and 
faith  and  constancy,  were  alike  unexpected,  unwelcome,  con¬ 
temptible.  The  idyl,  the  poem,  the  Paradise  of  lofty,  tender 
thoughts^  and  prayers  had  been  all  a  dream — a  long,  bright 
morning  dream — a  dream  the  product  of  which  was  delirious 
agony  of  pain,  desolation,  and  burning,  mortified  shame — the 
anguished  shame  which  those  equally  proud  and  pure-minded 
alone  can  know. 

She  was  awake  now,  to  dream  her  sweet  dream  no  more. 
Awake! — not  even  the  soft  snow’s  deadly  shrouding  could 
lull  the  pain  to  sleep.  Awake!  for  the  waves  of  the  cold 
'gray  sea  rang  a  ceaseless  dirge,  and  she  must  arise  and 
gather-  up  the  crushed,  ruined  remnants  of  the  shattered 
treasure  of  her  young  life,  wipe  away  her  tears,  and  bury  it 
deep  for  ever  out  of  the  sight  of  those  who  would  mock  her 
woe. 

u  \  suppose  I  cannot  die,”  she  said,  wildly,  looking  up  to 
heaven  in  her  tearless  misery;  “I  shall  live  on  and  on  as  I 
have  done  for  years  and  years.  But  oh,”  the  girl  cried, 
assailed  with  the  devilish  whispering  temptation  that  ever 
lurks  in  the  dark,  mantling  folds  of  despair,  “  I  am  not  yet 
twenty-one,  and  life  is  such  a  dreadful  thing!” 

Beckoning  arms  from  the  tossing  waves  seemed  to  be  out¬ 
stretched  to  her,  the  deep  gurgling  waters  amidst  the  rocks 
rolled  in  a  soothing  murmur,  the  ripples  rushed  towards  her 
and  slipped  softly  back  into  their  ocean  bed  as  if  wooing  her 
young  feet,  so  bruised  and  weary  from  the  pathway  of  life, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING,  91 

to  follow  them.  She  knew  nothing  of  heathen  doctrines  of 
the  right  to  die  and  the  sinlessness  of  the  suicide’s  act;  she 
was  only  a  poor,  simple-minded,  half  heart-broken  little  girl; 
and  a  wilder  prayer  of  supplication  followed  the  ejaculatory 
one  of  despair.  In  the  helpless  simplicity  of  her  Chris¬ 
tianity,  she  turned  to  Heaven  for  relief. 

“  Heaven  help  me — pity  me!”  sobbed  Winnie,  upstretching 
her  thin  white  arms,  as  if  seeking  the  clasp  of  a  friendly 
hand;  and,  gazing  upward,  she  saw  that  the  evening  star  had 
arisen,  and  was  looking  down  upon  her  from  the  dark  evening 
sky.  Down  into  the  gulf  of  her  despair,  like  a  pitying  eter¬ 
nal  eye,  shone  the  slender  silver  ray.  And  the  star-angel, 
God’s  messenger  to  his  sorrowing  child,  lighting  her  gently 
on  her  homeward  path,  seemed  to  soothe  her  at  once  with 
assurance  of  succour  and  relief. 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

“  I  can  not  quite  understand,  Mildred,  about  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon — has  aunt  Vivian  quarrelled  with  her?” 

“  Quarrelled!  Aunt  Vivian  quarrelled  with  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon!  Profane  mortal!  ”  Mildred  responded,  her  haughty 
smile  resolving  into  a  sunshine  of  mischievous  fun.  “Aunt 
Vivian  quarrel  with  her  poor  little  hired  companion,  amanu¬ 
ensis,  or  whatever  other  office  she  was  honoured  by  being 
appointed  to!  Does  Her  Gracious  Majesty  box  the  ears  of 
the  royal  pages  when  they  fail  in  their  duty?  ” 

“Well,  then,  what  is  the  cause  of  aunt’s  totally  ignoring 
the  poor  little  thing’s  existence?  ”  asked  Captain  Tredennick, 
rather  irritably.  “  I  fancied  that  Madam  regarded  her  more- 
in  the  light  of  an  adopted  child  than  anything  else,  and  now 
I  discover  that  she  never  sees  her,  never  mentions  her  name, 
and  prevents  it  from  being  mentioned,  as  I  fancied  last  night 
from  her  manner.  Has  Winnie  Caerlyon  done  anything  to 
offend  her?  ” 

“You  had  better  ask  her,  cousin,”  Mildred  replied,  her 
face  sparkling  all  over  with  satirical  mirth.  “  Ask  her  where 
is  Winnie  Caerlyon — why  was  she  banished  from  Roseworthy 
— and  beg  that  she  may  be  instantly  recalled — do,  Stephen — 
to  oblige  me!” 

“Why  are  you  laughing,  Mildred?”  he  said,  smiling  in 


92 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


spite  of  himself.  “  Is  there  any  reason  why  I  should  not  ask 
aunt  Vivian  about  her  little  friend?  55 

“I  think  you  had  better  apply  to  aunt  Vivian  herself  if 
you  want  any  information  on  the  subject,  cousin  Stephen,5' 
Mildred  returned,  more  quietly  and  coldly;  “  she  might  not 
think  the  affair  one  in  which  I  could  possibly,  or  with  pro¬ 
priety,  be  interested,  or  with  which  I  ought  to  be  acquainted,” 
and  the  sarcastic  lips  took  an  additional  sharp  curve  as  she 
spoke. 

“‘With  propriety,’  Mildred — about — about  little  Winnie 
Caerlyon!  ”  Stephen  Tredennick’s  very  lips  had  grown  pale, 
and  he  gasped  out  the  words  breathlessly  in  convulsive  alarm. 

“About  little  Winnie  Caerlyon,”  Mildred  repeated,  her 
handsome  face  growing  hard,  and  her  bright  eyes  peering  in 
their  haughty  gaze  into  her  cousin’s  troubled  changing  face. 
“  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  the  news  affects  you  so  much,  Cap¬ 
tain  Tredennick.” 

“Affects  me!”  Stephen  Tredennick  cried,  his  alarm  and 
bewilderment  growing  stronger.  “  Why,  Mildred,  what  is 
there  to  be  sorry  for?  What  is  it  about  poor  little  Winnie 
Caerlyon?” 

The  cold  haughty  face  grew  colder,  and  Mildred  Treden¬ 
nick’s  eyes  flashed  in  a  sudden  blaze  of  indignation. 

“  Captain  Tredennick,  I  hate  hypocrisy  as  I  hate  craftiness,” 
she  said;  “it  does  not  become  one  of  our  name  to  stoop  so 
low  as  to  touch  either!  ”  And,  having  given  utterance  to  her 
sentiments,  her  imperial  highness  gathered  her  satin-lined 
morning-robes  around  her  as  if  they  had  been  in  truth  the 
regal  purples,  and  swept  out  of  Stephen  Tredennick’s  offend¬ 
ing  presence,  leaving  him  hurt,  amazed,  angry,  and  confused 
beyond  measure. 

Half  an  hour  later  her  mood  changed. 

“I  don’t  believe  poor  dear  old  Stephen  is  to  blame  one  bit, 
in  spite  of  all  they  may  say,”  she  muttered  to  herself,  twitch¬ 
ing  her  dress  away  from  Miss  Trewhella’s  solicitous  touching 
and  arranging,  and  marching  off  imperiously,  fastening  her 
silken  sash  and  adjusting  her  lace  collar  as  she  went,  in  a 
highly  independent  manner.  She  fearlessly  invaded  her 
cousin’s  privacy  in  his  study,  where  he  sat  before  the  fire  in 
the  dark  dull  afternoon,  in  a  deep  reverie  of  thought  and 
tobacco  smoke  hazily  intermingled. 

“  Cousin  Stephen,”  she  said  abruptly,  “  I  beg  your  pardon 
. — I  spoke  rudely  a  while  ago,  but  you  annoyed  me.” 

“I  was  not  aware  of  having  done  so,”  rejoined  Stephen 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


93 


Tredennick,  quietly  and  gravely.  There  was  no  one  on  earth 
who  could  manage  Mildred  Tredennick  so  easily,  and  exert 
such  an  influence  over  her,  as  her  cousin  Stephen;  at  least 
his  aunt  and  hers — Madam  Vivian — had  constantly  assured 
him  of  the  fact.  “  But  you  annoyed  and  troubled  me. 
Unkind  insinuations  and  malicious  hints  ought  to  be  as  far 
beneath  a  Tredennick  as  hypocrisy  and  craftiness,  Millie.” 

“  And  I  have  not  stooped  to  either,  Stephen,”  said  Mildred, 
hotly;  “but  I  thought  that  you  were  descending  to  an  elab¬ 
orate  pretence  of  ignorance  of  something  of  which  you  were 
perfectly  aware — at  least,  so  they  said.” 

“  Who  said?  ”  Stephen  Tredennick  demanded,  laying  down 
his  pipe. 

“  Everybody — the  world  of  Roseworthy  and  the  parish  of 
St.  Awen.” 

“  What  did  they  say,  Mildred,”  the  Captain  of  the  Chit- 
toor  asked,  sternly,  confronting  his  handsome,  haughty 
cousin,  haughtier  than  herself,  looking  down  from  his  stal¬ 
wart  height  on  even  her  Juno-like  stature;  and  imperious, 
self-possessed  Mildred  quailed  ever  so  little,  and  faltered, 
with  a  girlish  rising  colour. 

“They  said  that  you  admired  Winnie  Caerlyon,  noticed 
her,  walked  out  with  her,  paid  her  visits,  liked  and  admired 
her,  and  paid  her  attention — you  know,  Stephen  ” — imperious 
Mildred  faltered  here — “  and  then - ” 

“Then  what?”  He  struck  his  clenched  hand  with  an 
involuntary  force  against  the  arm  of  his  chair,  and  a  storm 
overtaking  the  Chittoor  on  the  wide  ocean  never  brought  so 
dark  a  cloud  as  then  swept  over  his  brow. 

“  They  said  that  Winnie  Caerlyon,  poor  little  thing - ” 

Mildred’s  very  temples  had  coloured  now — her  keen  womanly 
pride  and  delicacy  shrank  from  what  must  have  seemed  cast¬ 
ing  ridicule  on  another  woman’s  hopeless  affection.  That 
poor  little  miserable,  pale-faced,  shabby  creature — why 
should  she  render  her  absurd  and  unworthy  of  respect  in 
Stephen  Tredennick’s  eyes? 

She  glanced  at  the  mirrored  reflection  of  her  own  splendid 
form,  in  the  glory  of  her  blooming  womanhood — at  the 
silken  sheen  of  her  sweeping  robes  of  royal  blue — Mildred 
would  have  liked  to  wear  purple  velvet  and  ermine  every  day 
had  it  not  been  inconvenient — the  massive  gold  comb  and 
pins  fastening  the  braids  of  her  shining  bronze-hued  hair,  her 
aristocratic  jewelled  hands,  the  satin  fairness  of  which  one 
hour’s  hard  work  had  never  sullied — at  all  the  queenly  ele- 


94 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


gance  and  grace  which  were  so  natural  to  her  in  the  pride  of 
her  beauty,  and  she  hesitated,  with  the  unwillingness  of  a 
noble  nature,  to  crush  the  weak,  to  mock  the  helpless,  to 
slight  a  sister- woman  because  she  was  inferior  in  birth  and 
station. 

But  Stephen  Tredennick’ s  face  admitted  of  little  hesita¬ 
tion,  of  no  denial;  beneath  the  magnetism  of  his  clear,  stern 
gaze,  capricious  Mildred  had  no  power  but  obediently  to 
reply: 

“  They  said,  Stephen — gossipping  women — tattlers — those 
kind  of  people,  you  know,”  she  went  on,  reluctantly, — “  that 
Winnie - ” 

“What  about  Winnie?”  Stephen  Tredennick  reiterated. 

The  childish  name  brought  back  in  a  flood  of  recollection 
the  announcement  of  the  little  dark  dripping  figure  in  the 
lighted  entry — the  pale-faced  child  with  the  beautiful  tresses 
of  hair  and  the  passionate  womanly  eyes — the  shivering  little 
woman  whom  he  had  escorted  home  through  the  wild  March 
morning — the  gentle  girl  by  whose  side  he  had  sat  on  that 
sunny  afternoon,  listening  to  her  sweet  voice,  as  it  mingled 
with  the  plashing  of  the  waves — the  patient,  dear  little  creat¬ 
ure,  busy  in  the  tidy  kitchen,  with  her  white  apron  and  her 
big  knife,  cutting  bread-and-butter. 

Stephen  Tredennick  had  often  laughed  since,  calling  to 
mind  what  a  large  knife  and  great  pile  of  bread  were  there, 
and  how  slight  and  small  was  the  deft  little  housewife — poor 
dear  little  Winnie,  who  had  blushed  beneath  his  gaze  as  he 
had  never  seen  a  woman  blush  before  or  since,  whom  he  had 
taken  into  his  heart,  although  he  did  not  know  it,  whose  pure 
lips  he  had  kissed,  and  had  felt  ever  since  as  if  he  dared 
never  sully  his  own  by  a  coarse  word  or  a  lighter  caress,  for 
their  dear  maidenly  sake. 

Winnie!  Poor  dear  little  pale-faced,  quaint,  simple- 
hearted  Winnie — fiery,  proud,  passionate  little  woman — 
patient,  dutiful,  loving  little  maiden — what  had  the  serpent 
tongues  of  gossips  and  scandal-mongers  to  lay  to  her  charge 
— that  innocent  child  with  the  wistful  face  and  dark  pathetic 
eyes,  like  a  sea-spirit  exiled  from  the  beauty  of  her  ocean 
home  to  earth’s  dreary  drudgery?  What  had  they  to  say  to 
her?  What  did  they  dare  to  say?  And  Stephen  Treden¬ 
nick’s  stout  heart  grew  still  in  the  breathless  waiting  for  his 
cousin’s  reply. 

“  What  do  they  say  about  Winnie?”  he  repeated,  hoarsely. 

And  Mildred  Tredennick  looked  straight  into  his  eyes— 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOBNING. 


95 

angrily  almost — for  in  her  loyal  womanliness  she  dreaded 
to  see  a  sneer  or  self-satisfied  smile  there — and  answered, 
bringing  out  the  sharp  bare  truth  of  the  assertion  with  a 
stern  reproachful  directness — 

“  That  Winnie  Caerlyon  loves  you.” 

There  was  dead  silence  for  a  minute  or  two  in  the  warm 
fire-lit  room,  for  the  gray  shades  of  evening  were  falling 
fast  over  the  snow- covered  landscape.  The  smile  that  Mil¬ 
dred  feared  she  did  not  see,  although  Stephen  Tredennick’s 
face  was  lit  up  with  a  sudden  flush  and  glow  not  due  to  the 
flickering  radiance  of  the  ruddy  fire.  • 

He  took  up  his  pipe  with  a  steady  hand,  and  sat  down 
quietly  again  in  the  easy-chair;  but  Mildred  did  not  hear  the 
low  heavy  sigh  of  relief  breathed  by  lips  that  quivered  with 
sudden  surprised  emotion — nor  did  she  perceive  how  his 
steady  fingers  had  closed  like  a' vise  on  the  carvings  of  his 
meerschaum  bowl  and  stem. 

“  Who  said  so,  Mildred?” 

He  spoke  so  quietly,  without  an  ejaculation  of  wonderment 
or  disbelief,  that  Mildred’s  curiosity  aroused  afresh  her  usual 
sarcastic,  mirthful  temper. 

“Everybody,  I  tell  you,  Stephen,”  she  answered  with  a  sol¬ 
emn  shake  of  her  head,  closely  watching  her  cousin’s  some¬ 
what  inscrutable  expression,  and  endeavoring  to  decipher  it. 
“It  is  true,  then,  I  suppose?”  she  went  on,  determined  to 
tease  him  into  admission  or  denial  of  the  charge  made  against 
him.  “Alas!  false  man,  you  have  been  regarding  Tolgoq^li 
Bay  as  6  All  in  the  Downs’  where 

the  fleet  was  moored, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

and  poor  little  c  Black-eyed  Susan  ’  coming  aboard  singing — 

i  O,  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find?’ 

I  am  afraid  it  is  all-  perfectly  true,  Captain  Tredennick;  and 
I  never  thought  it  would  be  my  fate  to  see  my  hitherto 
highly-esteemed  relative,  who  gravely  reproved  my  delin¬ 
quencies  when  I  was  young,  and  gravely  admonished  me  as 
to  the  way  in  which  I  should  go  when  I  grew  old,  branded  as 
a  gay  sea-rover  by  the  highly  respectable  and  scandal-loving 
inhabitants  of  the  parish  of  St.  Awen!” 

“  You  need  not  talk  such  utter  nonsense  if  you  must  jest,” 
said  Stephen  Tredennick,  shortly. 

There  was  not  another  man  on  earth  who  would  have  dared 


96 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


to  address  that  silken-robed,  beautiful  young  woman  in  such 
a  manner;  but  Stephen  Tredennick  always  spoke  as  he  felt  to 
his  cousin  Mildred,  and  Mildred  liked  him  as  she  liked  none 
other  onv  earth — save  one.  That  one  she  loved — and  Mil¬ 
dred  Tredennick’s  love  was  a  feeling  very  different  from 
liking. 

“  It  is  not  utter  nonsense  by  any  means,  but  particularly 
good  sense,  as  you  may  find  out,”  Mildred  returned,  jestingly 
still,  but  with  a  certain  weight  of  meaning  in  her  tones. 

“  And  I  thought  you  cared  more  for  me,”  Captain  Treden¬ 
nick  remarked,  quietly  and  reproachfully,  “than  to  allow 
vulgar  gossip,  in  your  hearing,  to  tamper  with  my  name — 
not  to  mention  the  poor  innocent  little  girl’s — in  that  absurd 
and  improbable  manner.” 

“You  tampered  with  it  yourself  before  I  ever  heard  the 
girl’s  name  mentioned,  or  entered  the  cloistered  seclusion 
of  Roseworthy,”  retorted  Mildred,  sharply.  One  could 
wager  with  far  greater  certainty  on  the  event  of  a  bright, 
mild,  sunshiny  spring  morning  than  on  Miss  Tredennick’s 
mood  for  half  an  hour  together. 

The  meerschaum  was  roughly  pushed  aside  now. 

“  I,”  he  said,  the  veins  in  his  temples  standing  out  darkly 
in  relief — •“  I,  Mildred  !  How,  pray  ?  ” 

“Through  that  fur  jacket,  I  believe,”  Mildred  responded, 
briefly. 

Her  cousin  looked  both  excited  and  seriously  disturbed  and 
angry.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  provoking  him  much  fur¬ 
ther;  but  the  temptation  to  tease  was  irresistible  with  the  ty¬ 
rannical  young  lady — besides,  after  all,  what  could  this  poor 
little  Winnie  Caerlyon  be  to  him? 

“That  fur  jacket,  concerning  which  I  have  heard  such  sen¬ 
sational  accounts — why  did  you  give  it  to  her,  Stephen?  ” 

“  The — fur — jacket,”  Stephen  Tredennick  repeated,  in  the 
slow  utterance  of  mingled  astonishment  and  indignation — * 
“  why  did  I  give  it  to  her?  Because  I  chose  to  do  so,  and 
had  the  money  in  my  pocket,  I  suppose.” 

“Very  likely,”  Mildred  replied.  She  was  enjoying  her¬ 
self  excessively — reciting  in  full  to  the  very  person  most 
concerned  the  real  cause  which  her  aunt  would  have  abso¬ 
lutely  ignored  and  denied — of  Madam’s  decision  to  rid 
herself  of  her  poor  little  companion.  Madam  Vivian  would 
not  on  any  account  have  allowed  Stephen  Tredennick  to 
discover  that  she  had  had  the  slighest  apprehension  with  re¬ 
gard  to  poor  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  dangerous  attractiveness. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOBNING. 


97 


Mildred  had,  of  course,  discovered  this,  along  with  others  of 
her  astute  aunt’s  secret  purposes  and  desires,  as  a  bold,  true, 
single-hearted  nature  will  often  discover  the  craftiest  policy 
of  a  world-hampered  brain  at  a  single  effort — she  had  a  score 
on  her  own  account  likewise  to  pay  off,  and  dutifully  de¬ 
lighted  in  the  thought  of  Madam’s  discomfiture.  “Very 
likely,”  she  repeated,  laughing,  “  but  I  have  heard  of  fatal 
gifts  before  now,  Captain  Tredennick.  Dejanira’s  poisoned 
garment  may  have  been  pretty  enough — doubtless  as  pretty 
as  that  beautiful  sealskin  jacket  I  have  heard  so  much  of — 
but  you  know  what  Dejanira’s  gift  did  for  poor  Hercules.” 

Between  the  terrible  allusion  to  “  poisoned  garments,”  the 
sarcastic  blame  implied  in  his  cousin’s  manner,  and  the  attack 
upon  his  mythological  memory,  Stephen  Tredennick  felt 
quite  overwhelmed. 

“  Why,  Mildred,  what  harm  was  it?  Did  I — was  it  wrong?” 
he  stammered.  “  I  thought  I  might  give  a  young  lady — -a 
girl  of  her  age — a  present — a  little  gift  for  a  keepsake.  It  is 
not  unusual,  I  think?  Was  it  wrong?  What  harm  was  it, 
Millie?  I  did  not  think  there  could  be  any  harm  indeed!” 

In  his  earnestness  he  stood  clasping  his  cousin’s  fair  jew¬ 
elled  hands,  while  Mildred’s  handsome  face  ‘grew  radiant 
with  girlish  fun,  both  on  account  of  “  poor  old  Stephen’s  un¬ 
easiness,”  and  at  the  sudden  belief  that  there  was  a  deeper 
feeling  than  mere  annoyance  prompting  his  earnestness  and 
excitement  which  her  clover  teasing  had  brought  to  light. 

The  red  glow  of  the  firelight  revealed  them  standing  so 
together — Mildred’s  bright,  upturned  face  gleaming  with 
smiles,  Stephen’s  full  of  earnest  questioning — revealed  them 
so  plainly  that  a  watcher  outside  in  the  chill  wintry  gloaming 
of  the  dark,  frozen  shrubbery  could  notice  even  the  pattern 
of  the  fragile  white  lace  collar  and  sleeves  whioh  adorned 
Mildred  Tredennick’s  rich  dark  silk  dress,  the  brilliant  clus¬ 
ter  of  golden  toys  swaying  at  her  watchchain,  the  restless 
flash  of  the  starry  rings  on  her  long,  thin  white  fingers. 

The  firelit  room,  with  those  soft,  ample  curtains  of  maroon 
damask  lying  on  the  warm  dark  carpet — the  subdued  glitter 
of  dark  polished  woods,  and  lines  and  spots  of  bright  gilding 
glimmering  from  floor  to  ceiling — that  dark  cased  wall,  with 
its  close-packed  rows  of  books — the  light,  warmth,  comfort, 
happiness,  and  the  beauty  of  beautiful  Mildred  Tredennick — 
these  were  the  accessories  of  the  picture  whose  central  figure 
she  had  alone  come  to  look  upon — that  little  dark-robed 
watcher  in  the  cold  and  snow  outside — to  look  her  last  upon. 

7 


98 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


She  crept  nearer  and  nearer  for  that  long  last  farewell 
look — so  near  that  had  Captain  Tredennick  not  been  looking 
into  his  cousin’s  eyes,  he  must  have  met  the  gaze  of  those 
deep,  dark,  yearning  ones  outside  in  the  evening  gloom. 

“ Heaven  bless  her — Stephen  Tredennick’s  wife!”  whis¬ 
pered  the  pale,  quivering  lips;  and  then  the  dark  evergreens 
and 'frozen  shrubs  rustled  softly,  parted  and  closed,  and  the 
lone  little  watcher  was  gone. 

.  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

“I  am  very  sorry,  Stephen;  I  should  not  have  annoyed  you 
by  repeating  this  spiteful  gossip,”  Mildred  said,  penitently, 
at  the  close  of  their  prolonged  tete-a-tete  in  the  study — Mil¬ 
dred  and  Stephen  were  rather  fond  of  tete-a-tete  interviews 
and  tete-a-tete  rambles,  Madam  Vivian  noticed,  with  much 
stately  satisfaction — “  and  I  promise  you  that,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  there  shall  be  no  further  ground  for  people’s 
unkind  remarks  about  your  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon.” 

“ My  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon?”  Stephen  Tredennick 
said,  raising  his  brows  in  a  frown,  whilst  in  the  eyes  beneath 
a  curious  smile  was  shining. 

“  Well,  my  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon,  then,”  returned 
Mildred,  coldly.  “  She  shall  be  my  friend,  and  I  shall  request 
Madam  Vivian,  our  worthy  and  grievously-mistaken  relative,  to 
permit  Miss  Caerlyon’s  visits  here  as  my  friend.  But  I 
believe  I  must  make  you  my  ambassador  in  the  first  instance, 
Captain  Tredennick;  it  would  be  less  formal  and  more 
friendly;  besides,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  am  half  afraid  of  en¬ 
countering  that  terrible  step-mother,  and  should  not  wTish  to 
do  so  unless  you  object  to  the  office.  In  case  it  should  be 
too  disagreeable  and  troublesome  an  undertaking  for  you,  I 
will  defer  my  invitation  until  I  can  pay  a  visit  in  person.” 

Her  sparkling  eyes  shot  glances  of  barbed  satire  and  malice 
at  her  cousin,  who,  after  a  struggle  to  look  coolly  indifferent  or 
indignant,  failed  utterly,  and  got  up  a  violent  fit  of  coughing 
instead,  which  perhaps  accounted  for  the  flushed  confusion  of 
his  face. 

“ Nonsense,  Mildred — I  will  go,”  he  said,  quickly;  “not 
this  evening  though — it  is  too  late  now,  I  think.” 

“  Rather,”  returned  Mildred,  laconically — “  unless  you 
want  me  to  make  my  appearance  in  half  an  hour  at  the 
dinner-table  alone,  and,  when  my  cousin  is  inquired  for,  tell 
Madam  that  he  is  gone  after  my  Winnie  Caerlyon!” 

“Mildred,  how  can  you  be  so  ridiculous?”  her  cousin 
cried,  laughing  excessively,  in  a  rather  uncalled-for  manner 

j 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


99 

indeed.  But,  as  he  turned  to  leave  the  room  to  dress  for 
dinner,  he  put  his  arms  round  Mildred  in  a  brotherly  caress. 
“  Millie,”  he  said,  earnestly,  “  you  are  a  good  girl — a  good 
girl  with  a  true  kind  heart,  my  dear.  Whoever  thinks  you 
have  not,  misjudges  you  sorely;  and  I  only  hope,”  he  went 
on,  more  earnestly  and  tenderly,  “  that  no  one  will  ever  pos¬ 
sess  the  love  of  that  true  heart  who  shall  not  be  in  all 
respects  worthy  of  it.” 

“  He  is  worthy,”  Mildred  cried,  passionately,  her  eyes  and 
cheeks  aflame  in  an  instant  in  proud  assurance — “  you  know 
he  is,  Stephen!  ” 

“  Bertie  Gardiner?  ”  her  cousin  half  queried;  with  a  rather 
pitying  smile,  haughty  Mildred  fancied.  “He  is  a  brave, 
handsome,  high-spirited  lad,  I  know;  but,  oh,  Millie,  my  dear, 
he  is  very  young,  he  is  very  far  away,  and  constancy  is  not 
one  of  the  virtues  of  youth  under  temptation.” 

The  imperious  forbidding  gesture  of  her  quick  upraised 
hand  stopped  him  suddenly. 

“  Temptation,”  she  said,  the  proud  tears  flooding  her  bril¬ 
liant  eyes — “temptation  to  be  false  to  me,  Stephen?  Why 
do  you  speak  so,”  she  demanded  in  haughty  rebuke,  “  when 
you  know  that  we  love  each  other — that  we  mean  to  live  for 
each  other — that  no  one  could  tempt  us  to  forsake  each  other,” 
poor  Mildred  cried,  in  her  proud  devotion  to  her  young  lover 
— “when  you  know  that  nothing  could  separate  us — Bertie  and 
me — nothing  but  death!  ” 

“Nothing  but  death,”  her  cousin  repeated,  mechanically, 
and  he  softly  stroked  the  fair  white  hand  lying  in  his  own, 
with  a  certain  sense  of  sadness  thrilling  him  from  the  proud 
defiance  of  the  declaration  of  her  fond,  impetuous,  wayward 
love — “nothing  but  death — I  believe  it,  Millie!  ” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

“  I  must  not  be  too  late,”  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  hastened 
his  steps  down  the  winding  descent  of  the  road  at  the  farther 
side  of  Tregarthen  Head — “I  wish  I  could  have  gone  to 
deliver  Mildred’s  message  yesterday  evening — I  must  not  be 
too  late  now.” 

He  quickened  his  steps  again — the  Coastguard  station  on 
the  rising  cliff  beyond  was  very  near  now — he  would  not 
lose  a  minute  more  than  he  could  help. 


100 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAEOH  MOENING. 


“  Heaven  bless  Mildred!  What  a  kind,  generous  nature 
she  has!”  he  went  on  thinking,  pleasantly.  “  What  a  brave, 
true,  high-spirited,  beautiful  wife  she  will  be  in  the  years  to 
come — a  proud,  noble-minded,  generous,  loving  mother,  whom 
her  children  will  naturally  turn  to  in  reverence  and  admira¬ 
tion!  How  kindly  she  spoke  of  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon! 
She  will  be  a  real  friend  to  her,  1  am  sure,  quick-tempered 
and  haughty  as  she  is — as  haughty  as  my  old  grandfather, 
‘Proud  Tredennick,’  as  people  used  to  call  him.  She  is 
warm-hearted  and  true  to  the  core — somewhat  similar  in 
character,  yet  full  of  dissimilarity,  to  my  poor  little  Winnie 
herself.” 

It  had  a  pleasant  sound,  this -last  phrase,  to  Stephen  Tre- 
dennick’s  ear,  and  he  repeated  it  again  ere  he  angrily  rumin¬ 
ated  on  another  topic. 

“How  dare  they  gossip  about  her!  How  dare  they  couple 
my  name  with  hers — poor  innocent  child!  Because  I  ven¬ 
tured  to  bestow  on  her  a  few  friendly  words  and  a  friendly 
gift!  If  I  heard  them,  they  should  stow  their  words  faster 
down  their  throats  than  they  could  utter  them!  ”  he  said, 
wrathfully.  “  And  aunt  Vivian  is  most  blamable  of  all ! 
She  gave  the  gossiping  rumours  stability  by  her  unkindly 
treatment.  As  if  the  child  had  done  any  wrong — thought 
any  wrong!  All  are  unjust,  unkind,  tyrannical  towards  her 
— my  poor  little  Winnie!  ” 

He  had  almost  reached  the  Coastguard  station  now,  and  his 
feelings  had  quite  reached  an  altitude  of  indignation  and 
chivalric  resolve  which  would  have  dismayed  Madam  Viv¬ 
ian’s  very  soul  within  her,  as  the  result  of  her  own  injudi¬ 
ciousness,  could  she  but  have  known  it;  but — happily  for  her 
peace  of  mind — she  knew  nothing  further  than  the  fact  that 
her  much-indulged,  imperious  niece  had  made  the  abrupt  and 
capricious  request  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  invite  Miss 
Caerlyon  to  spend  the  evening  at  Roseworthy,  to  which  re¬ 
quest  Madam,  in  much  surprise  and  outward-seeming  gra¬ 
ciousness,  gave  her  assent. 

Outside  the  whitewashed  porch  Captain  Tredennick  paused 
for  a  moment,  in  the  hope  that  the  busy  little  housekeeper 
herself  might  dart  out  on  an  errand,  and  save  him  from  ab¬ 
ruptly  confronting  the  high-tempered  step-mother. 

“  She  is  cutting  the  bread-and-butter  for  the  children’s  sup¬ 
per  with  her  big  apron  and  her  big  knife,  I  dare  say,”  he 
muttered,  laughingly;  “  or  minding  the  baby  that  she  regrets 
is  so  quiet.” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


101 


He  listened  to  the  voices  that  he  could  faintly  hear  through 
the  closed  doors  and  windows — listened  for  that  clear  gentle 
one  he  remembered  so  well;  but  it  was  not  to  be  heard. 

“  I  wish  Mildred  had  come  with  me,”  he  said,  uneasily; 
“  Mildred  could  go  in  and  bring  Winnie  back  with  her  better 
than  I  can.” 

He  listened  again,  uneasily  and  longingly,  before  he 
knocked,  and  paused  even  when  he  was  told  to  enter,  listen¬ 
ing  in  vain. 

“How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Caerlyon?”  he  said,  entering 
through  the  narrow  passage  to  the  meagrely  furnished,  tidy 
little  sitting-room,  with  a  most  fictitious  assumption  of  easy 
cheerfulness.  “I  am  the  bearer  of  a  note  from  my  cousin, 
Mildred  Tredennick,  to  your  daughter,  Miss  Caerlyon.  Is 
she  at  home?  ” 

“  Good  evening,  Cappun  Tredennick,”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  said, 
rising  hastily,  but  confronting  him  with  hostile  stiffness  and 
straightness,  keeping  the  stocking  she  was  darning  pulled 
over  her  left  hand,  and  the  worsted  needle  in  her  right.  “  Do 
ye  want  to  see  Winiford?”  she  demanded. 

“Yes,  if  you  please,”  he  answered,  trying  to  smile  concili- 
atingly,  and  finding  the  effort  to  be  a  total  failure  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Caerlyon’s  petrifying  stare.  “  Madam  Vivian  and  my 
cousin  Mildred  want  her  to  spend  the  evening  with  us,  and  I 
am  deputed  to  bring  her  back  with  me.  If  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  tell  her  and  allow  her  to  come,”  he  concluded, 
sharply,  Mrs.  Caerlyon’s  cold  stare  and  gloomy  face  irritating 
him  beyond  measure  in  the  anticipation  of  a  curt  refusal. 

While  he  spoke,  he  glanced  about  anxiously  for  a  sign  of 
the  little  shabby  black-straw  hat,  the  thin  gray  plaid  shawl, 
or  haply  that  fatal  sealskin  jacket.  Anxiously  he  longed  for 
the  sound  of  the  light  footfall,  the  soft  patient  voice.  More 
anxiously  than  he  could  have  believed  possible — with  a  strange 
keen  longing — he  looked  for  the  pale  little  face,  the  dark  sad 
gray  eyes,  and  the  crowning  tresses  of  silken  brown  hair.  He 
had  even  begun  to  think  how  he  would  tease  her  for  not  hav¬ 
ing  kept  her  promise,  and  would  claim  the  keepsake  he  had 
requested  during  that  cold  walk  in  the  wild  March  morning 
on  their  way  from  Roseworthy — if  she  would  come  with  him 
— if  she  would  but  come  ! 

“You  can’t  see  her,”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  said,  shortly — “she’s 
not  here.” 

“Not  here  !”  repeated  Stephen  Tredennick,  feeling  as  if  a 
cold  wave  of  disappointment  had  chilled  him  to  the  heart. 


102 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“No,”  returned  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with  a  spiteful  air  of 
triumph  in  her  gloomy  face — “  you’ll  never  see  her  again, 
Cappun  Tredennick.  She’s  gone!” 

“  Gone!  ” 

“  Yes,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  shortly,  taking  up  her  darn¬ 
ing  again — “  Winifred  Caerlyon  is  gone  to  America!  ” 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Six  months  quickly  sped  away,  and  it  was  summer  in  the 
town  of  Winston,  State  of  Massachusetts,  United  States  of 
America — summer  in  Miss  Sarah  Whitney’s  front  parlour, 
in  Miss  Sarah  Whitney’s  own  purchased  dwelling-house,  No. 
30,  East  Street.  Miss  Whitney  had  just  “  washed  up  ”  the 
breakfast-things,  locked  up  the  buffet,  and  now  stood  sur¬ 
veying  with  some  disfavour  a  large  bouquet  of  white  roses, 
wild  sweet  geranium,  and  drooping  maple  leaves  which  her 
niece — Miss  Winifred  Caerlyon — was  tastefully  arranging  in 
a  green  china  vase. 

“  You’ll  mess  the  room  and  break  my  green  jar  that  I’ve 
had  these  thirty  years!”  cried  Miss  Whitney,  with  a  frown. 
“  Where  did  you  get  those  flowers?” 

“  Out  of  the  English  cemetery,  aunt  Sarah,”  replied  the 
gentle  voice  of  the  young  relative — “there’s  such  a  quan¬ 
tity  of  honey-scented  geranium  growing  there,  and  a  great 
bush  of  white  roses  in  the  corner  by  the  old  wall.” 

“  Hum — queer  notion  to  go  gatherin’  flowers  out  of  a 
churchyard  to  bring  into  a  body’s  sitting-room!”  returned 
Miss  Whitney,  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  sitting  down  to  her 
mending  basket.  “Is  that  an  English  notion,  Winifred?  If 
it  is,”  she  added,  putting  on  her  spectacles,  “  you’d  ha’ 
better  left  it  behind  you.” 

“No,  I  never  saw  any  one  do  it,”  Winifred  replied,  gently 
as  ever.  The  low,  sweet,  patient  voice  sounded  lower,  softer, 
perhaps  sadder  than  of  yore — “  like  the  twittering  of  a  lonely 
bird,”  Miss  Whitney  averred  shortly.  “But  the  white  roses 
looked  so  fresh  and  beautiful,  aunt  Sarah,  that  I  thought  it 
would  be  no  harm  to  pluck  a  few — I  love  white  flowers  so 
much.” 

“What  took  you  into  that  old  cemetery  at  all?”  queried 
Miss  Whitney.  “You’re  for  ever  going  in  there.  Is  it  be- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


103 


cause  there  happened  to  be  English  bones  laid  there  fifty 
years  ago  that  you  have  such  a  fancy  for  sitting  among 
graves  and  head-stones?” 

“Perhaps  that  is  one  reason,  aunt  Sarah,”  answered  Win¬ 
ifred,  truthfully;  “but  the  chief  reason  is  that  there  is  one 
corner  in  it  so  like  Trewillian  churchyard  at  home,  with  the 
ivy  creeping  over  the  stones,  and  tufts  of  pink  daisies,  and 
one  tall  elm  tree,  that  I  could  almost  declare  it  was  my 
mother’s  grave  that  lay  in  the  sunny  angle;  and  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  actually  back  in  Cornwall  again  when  I  sit  there  and 
hear  the  sea  down  at  Saunders’s  Point.” 

Miss  Whitney  felt  a  little  softened  at  the  allusion  to  the 
fair  young  niece  she  was  fond  of  eight-and-twenty  years  be¬ 
fore;  but  she  would  not  show  it  “  for  the  world.” 

“  You’re  homesick  for  Tolgooth  Bay,  and  your  step¬ 
mother,  and  her  pack  of  children,  I  suppose,  miss,”  she 
remarked,  snipping  away  at  the  patching  of  a  kitchen  towel 
— Miss  Whitney  never  let  “  rubbishing  fancy-work  ”  enter 
her  house — “  one  would  think  that  a  decent  quiet  home 
would  content  you  after  that!” 

“  Oh,  aunt  Sarah,”  cried  Winifred,  lifting  a  pained  white 
face,  “  you  know  that  I  am  contented  and  very  grateful 
for  it  !” 

“Then  you  oughtn’t  to  mope!”  retorted  Miss  Whitney, 
sharply.  “  I  suppose  the  house  is  too  quiet  for  you,  or  you 
want  girls  to  chatter  with.  You  may  go  into  other  houses, 
then,  for  you  won’t  have  any  chattering  in  here,  Winifred 
Caerlyon!  I’ll  have  no  fussing  and  dressing  and  talking 
about  beaux  and  parties  and  fal-lals  under  my  roof!” 

Six  months  before  Winifred  w^ould  have  shrunk,  pained, 
mortified,  and  displeased,  at  her  old  maiden  grand-aunt’s 
peevish  accusations.  She  had  learned  better  now.  The 
patient  meek  girl  had  grown  wiser  through  the  teaching  of 
her  hidden  sorrow. 

“  Give  me  those  stockings  to  darn,  auntie,”  she  said,  with 
a  slight  smile;  “they  are  a  great  deal  more  in  my  way  than 
finery  and  parties.” 

“  Oh,  girls’ll  be  girls  to  the  end  of  time,”  rejoined  Miss 
Whitney;  “  and  of  course  you’ve  your  notions  about  fine 
clothes  and  sweethearts  and  getting  married,  like  all  the 
rest.” 

Winifred  laughed. 

“Well,  if  1  have,  what  is  the  use  of  my  troubling  my 
head  about  them,  aunt  Sarah?”  she  asked  gaily.  “  You 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


104 

know  you  wouldn’t  permit  it,  if  I  wanted  ever  so  much  to 
have  fine  clothes  and  sweethearts,  and  get  married.” 

“  Oh,”  Miss  Whitney  returned,  grimly,  “  old  as  I  am,  I 
am  neither  so  old  nor  so  silly  as  to  think  that  I  could  prevent 
you  if  you  took  the  notion,  any  more  than  I  could  stop  the 
grass  from  growing.” 

“Well,  hut  I  shall  never  take  the  notion;  so  you  will 
be  spared  all  trouble  about  me  in  that  respect,  at  least,  aunt 
Sarah.” 

“  Why,  pray?”  demanded  aunt  Sarah,  looking  over  her 
spectacles.  “  You’ll  get  married  when  your  time  comes, 
though  I  dare  say  you’ve  an  idea  in  your  head  now  that  you 
won’t  have  any  one  but  some  fine,  tall,  handsome  fellow  with 
curly  hair  and  a  straight  nose — girls  are  always  going  on  with 
that  rubbish!” 

Winifred  smiled  slightly,  but  made  no  reply;  and  Miss 
Whitney  impatiently  regarded  the  quiet  attitude  and  the  busy 
fingers  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

Crotchety  and  eccentric  as  she  was,  there  was  one  thing 
which  provoked  her  into  incessant  suspicion  and  impatient 
curiosity — her  young  grand-niece’s  ungirlish  quietness,  do¬ 
cility,  and  reserved  old-fashioned  womanliness;  though,  had 
she  been  otherwise,  Miss  Whitney  would  have  been  merciless 
in  rebuke  and  chiding. 

“That’s  what  he  is,  I  suppose,  Winifred? ”  she  resumed, 
with  a  sour  smile  on  her  wrinkled  face. 

“Who?”  she  asked,  with  a  start. 

“That  fine  gentleman  you  left  at  home  in  Cornwall.  You 
needn’t  deny  it.  I  know  well  enough:  That’s  what  you’re 
always  thinking  about,  and  going  into  the  churchyard  for,  and 
crying  over  graves.  Your  step-mother  hinted  enough  to  me.” 

“  Aunt  Sarah,  you  are  wrong,  and  you  are  wronging  me,” 
said  Winifred,  quietly,  but  trembling.  “  There  is  nothing  in 
Cornwall  which  I  have  any  right  to  love  outside  of  my  father’s 
house,  except  my  mother’s  grave.  There  is  no  one  that  cares 
for  me,  unless  my  father  and  the  children  do;  and  my  step¬ 
mother  knows  that,”  added  Winifred,  with  a  touch  of  bitter¬ 
ness.  “No  one  ever  wanted  or  asked  to  marry  me,  except 
that  man  I  told  you  of  the  first  night  that  you  came,  aunt 
Sarah — you  remember?” 

“Ay,  I  remember  well  enough,  I  guess,”  responded  Miss 
Whitney,  snipping  away  fast  and  angrily — “  I  remember  see¬ 
ing  you  come  in  with  your  white  face  and  swollen  eyes  and 
hoarse  voice,  more  like  a  poor  creature  out  of  an  infirmary, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


105 


or  a  nurse  that  had  been  tending  patients  for  a  year  running, 
than  a  girl  of  twenty — my  niece  Winifred’s  child — -and  so  I 
told  your  step-mother!  ” 

“  It  was  from  no  fault  of  my  step-mother’s,  you  know,  as 
I  told  you,  aunt  Sarah,”  explained  Winnie,  sorrowfully  plead¬ 
ing — “  I  had  been  very  grieved  and  fretting — and — and 
nervous.  It  was  so  foolish  of  me,  but  I  soon  got  over  it, 
aunt,”  she  added,  with  a  faint  little  quiver  of  a  smile. 
“  Things  were  worrying  me,  and  I  was  not  very  strong,  and 
— and — oh,  aunt  Sarah  dear,”  she  cried,  passionately,  “  you 
cannot  tell  what  a  relief  it  was  to  me  when  you  said  that 
night  that  you  were  come  to  take  me  away!  I  had  been 
feeling  that  I  must  go  away  somewhere  or  I  should  die,  and 
I  was  praying  to  God  to  help  me  as  I  walked  home;  and 
when  I  came  in,  and  saw  my  strange  aunt  sitting  by  the  lire, 
and  heard  her  say  that  she  wished  me  to  go  away  with  her 
at  once,  as  she  was  returning  to  America,  I  felt  as  if  she  was 
an  angel  sent  from  heaven  to  me!” 

The  tears  were  falling  on  her  work,  and  with  a  very  dis¬ 
satisfied  grumble  Miss  Whitney  went  on  with  her  patching. 

“  And  then  you  brought  me  thousands  of  miles  to  live  with 
you,  aunt  Sarah,”  presently  resumed  Winnie,  more  lightly; 
u  and  I  was  so  glad  to  come,  though  I  had  to  leave  father  and 
the  poor  children.  I  shall  never  leave  you,  auntie,  unless  you 
bid  me — never  marry  anybody,  or  let  anybody  marry  me- — 
never!” 

Strangely  enough,  Miss  Whitney  looked  anything  but 
pleased  at  this  soothing  assurance. 

“  I  don’t  see  why  you  shouldn’t,”  she  muttered  under  her 
breath. 

She  glanced  at  the  wavy  brown  hair  glistening  in  the  sun¬ 
light,  the  pure  pale  face,  the  slender  graceful  form  in  its 
simple  robing  of  soft  transparent  black,  with  a  spray  of  white 
blossoms  fastened  at  the  waist. 

“I  don’t  see  why  you  should  be  different  from  others,”  the 
old  lady  remarked  aloud,  with  an  air  and  a  tone  of  gruff  in¬ 
difference,  belied  by  the  keen  satisfaction  and  secret  pride 
which  glimmered  in  that  keen,  long  look  through  the  spec¬ 
tacles.  “  You’re  not  made  a  drudge  and  a  slave  of  here,  as 
your  father’s  wife  made  o’  you.” 

“  Ah,  dear  aunt  Sarah,”  Winnie  pleaded  again,  “  it  could 
not  be  helped!  I  don’t  know  what  mamma  will  do  now — 
and  there’s  poor  little  Louie!  ” 

“  She’ll  do  without  you  when  she  can’t  have  you,  I  sup- 


106 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MOENING. 


pose,”  returned  Miss  Whitney,  crustily.  “  I  don’t  see  what 
business  she  had  to  make  my  sister’s  daughter’s  child  her 
‘help!’” 

“  This  stocking  is  darned  now,  aunt  Sarah,”  said  Winnie, 
striving  for  the  soft  answer  that  turneth  away  wrath;  “  shall 
I  go  and  make  the  pot-pie?” 

“No,  you  sha’n’t,”  answered  Miss  Whitney;  “  Hannah’ll 
do  it  a  sight  better  than  you,  I  guess.  Go  over  to  Miss 
Green,  and  ask  her  if  she  can  come  over  here  this  afternoon 
— I  want  to  speak  to  her.” 

“Miss  Green,  the  music-teacher,  aunt?”  said  Winnie,  a 
little  puzzled. 

“Yes,”  replied  Miss  Whitney,  with  grim  humour  looking 
at  her  shrivelled  knotty  hands;  “  don’t  you  know  that  I’m 
going  to  learn  to  play  polkas?” 

Miss  W hitney  seemed  determined,  on  that  brilliant,  balmy 
summer  day,  to  keep  her  pale  young  grand-niece  abroad  in 
the  pleasant  tree-shaded  streets  and  flower-scented  lanes,  for 
late  in  the  afternoon  she  was  despatched  again  on  an  errand 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  quiet,  straggling  town. 

“  And  you  needn’t  run  back  like  a  hare,  panting  for 
breath!”  cautioned  the  grim,  kindly  old  woman,  who,  in 
downright  truth,  dearly  loved  and  tried  to  indulge,  in  an  old- 
fashioned,  grave,  undemonstrative  fashion,  the  girl-niece  she 
had  taken  from  her  dreary  English  home,  as  she  never  yet 
had  loved  or  indulged  any  one  or  anything  in  her  life  before; 
only  she  did  not  choose  that  Winifred  should  perceive  this. 
If  was  very  injurious  to  children,  according  to  the  strict,  grim 
Puritanism  of  Miss  Whitney’s  doctrine,  that  they  should 
know  themselves  to  be  objects  of  tender,  watchful  love, 
heeding  their  every  wish  and  fancy.  “  And  that  black  hat 
of  yours  is  too  heavy  for  this  hot  weather,”  Miss  Whitney 
remarked  in  disapproval,  as  if  she  merely  disliked  the  idea 
of  a  sunstroke  for  her  niece,  and  did  not  think  that  a  new 
hat  would  be  a  source  of  some  pleasure  to  a  young  girl. 
“You’d  better  go  into  Fletcher’s  when  you’re  out,  and  get  a 
white  one — plain,  Winifred,  with  a  bit  of  black-lace  or  some¬ 
thing  simple.  There’s  three  dollars  for  you — will  that  be 
enough?” 

“  Oh,  aunt,  thank  you — it  will  be  plenty!”  said  Winnie, 
gratefully.  “  I’ll  get  a  nice  one — one  that  you  will  be  sure 
to  like.” 

And  when  Winnie  was  safely  gone,  and  the  gate  closed 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MOENING.  107 

behind  her,  two  tears  dimmed  the  glasses  of  Miss  Sarah 
Whitney’s  formidable  spectacles. 

"It’s  not  many  a  niece,  or  daughter  either,”  she  muttered, 
“  that  would  think  first  of  all  of  getting  what  I’d  ‘  be  sure  to 
like.’  She’s  been  Elizabeth  Anne  Caerlyon’s  daughter  long 
enough,”  continued  the  old  lady,  beginning  to  count  over  a 
roll  of  bank  bills  from  a  plethoric  pocket-book,  “  and  a  hard- 
worked  neglected  poor  slave  of  a  child  too!  But  she’s  mine 
now,”  said  Miss  Whitney,  laying  down  a  comfortable-look¬ 
ing  pile  of  ten-dollar  bills,  “  and  I  guess  she  shall  have  just 
as  good  a  time  as  other  folks’  daughters  have  in  a  free 
country!” 

*  *  #  *  *  -x-  * 

It  was  after  sunset  when  Winifred  returned,  and,  entering 
the  parlour  slowly  with  a  paper  parcel  in  her  hand,  found 
Miss  Green  vis-a-vis  with  her  aunt  at  the  tea-table,  spread 
with  the  best  damask  cloth  and  napkins,  the  red  and  white 
china,  fresh  corn  bread,  flaky  biscuits,  and  raspberry  jam  in 
one  of  Miss  Whitney’s  old  treasured  Dresden  dishes. 

“Well,  Miss  Caerlyon,  here  I  am  again,  you  see;  your 
aunt  has  been  kind  enough  to  insist  oi\  my  staying,”  said 
Miss  Green,  a  clever,  lively,  agreeable  “  school-madam  ”  of 
some  five-and-thirty  years  of  age. 

“  I  am  going  to  learn  my  polkas,  you  see,  Winifred,”  put 
in  aunt  Sarah,  looking  very  humorous  and  cheery  from  some 
cause  or  other. 

Miss  Green  was  smiling,  and  looking  very  humorous  too; 
and,  following  the  glances  of  their  eyes,  Winifred  stared 
hard  at  the  new  occupant  of  the  recess  beyond  the  old-fash¬ 
ioned  fireplace. 

“Where — where  did  that  dear  little  piano  come  from?” 
she  cried,  dropping  the  paper  bag  and  rushing  over  to  open 
the  dark  shining  lid.  “Whose  is  it?  Oh,  aunt!  ” 

“Mine,  of  course,”  said  Miss  Whitney,  gruffly;  “didn’t  I 
tell  you  that  I  was  going  to  learn  polkas  and  operas,  and 
everything  that  can  be  learned?  ” 

“  Oh,  aunt,”  entreated  Winnie,  speaking  in  all  good  faith 
in  her  eager  longing,  “won’t  you  let  me  learn  them  too?  ” 

For  the  first  time  for  a  considerable  number  of  years  Miss 
Sarah  Whitney  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter  that  shook  her 
from  head  to  foot. 

“I- — I  will — oh,  never  fear,  I  will,  Winifred!”  she  said, 
losing  her  breath  and  coughing  violently.  “  But  you  and 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOBNING. 


108 

Miss  Green’ll  have — hard  work — to  keep  ahead  of  me,  I 
guess — I’ll  learn  the  polkas  and  operas  so  fast!” 

She  poured  out  the  tea,  and  heaped  the  preserved  fruit  and 
golden  cream  on  her  niece’s  plate. 

“  Come  to  your  tea,  child,  and  presently  we’ll  look  at  your 
hat;  afterwards  we’ll  see  how  you’ll  get  on  with  the  music.” 

“  Oh,  aunt,  is  it  for  me  to  play  on?”  asked  Winifred, 
falteringly. 

“  I  guess  it  is,”  said  Miss  Whitney,  shortly — “  unless  you 
leave  it  to  me  to  play  all  those  fine  things  I’m  so  clever  at.” 

“  Did  you  buy  it  this  evening,  aunt  Sarah?”  she  questioned, 
unbelievingly. 

“  Indeed  I  didn’t — Miss  Green  did,  though.  Sit  down, 
Winifred,  the  tea’s  getting  cold.” 

“  I  never  saw  thanks  more  gracefully  given,”  said  Miss 
Green  afterwards  to  her  friends  and  acquaintances.  “  Miss 
Caerlyon  got  up,  went  over  to  the  old  lady,  sitting  as  stiff  as 
a  post,  and  looking  as  hard  and  grim  as  a  stone  image.  ‘  Aunt, 
you  are  so  kind,  so  thoughtful — you  have  given  me  such 
pleasure,  dear  aunt,  and  I  will  try  to  repay  it,’  she  said,  and 
put  her  pretty  pale  little  face  down  on  the  old  lady’s  breast, 
with  her  two  arms-  around  her  neck.  How  she  ventured  to 
do  it,  I  don’t  know.  I  didn’t  think  a  girl  living  would  ven¬ 
ture  to  kiss  Miss  Sarah  Whitney  like  that.  It’s  just  because 
the  loving  little  soul  is  fond  of  her  stern  old  aunt;  and  I  will 
say  that  she’s  the  sweetest  little  thing  I  ever  met,  whether 
she’s  English  or  not.” 

“  It’s  a  pretty  hat,  my  dear,”  said  Miss  Green  presently, 
surveying  Winnie’s  new  acquisition  with  a  critical  eye;  “but 
what  did  you  get  that  plain  black  silk  scarf  on  it  for?  That’s 
mourning — half-mourning,  you  know — that  snow-white,  crape¬ 
like  material,  and  that  folded,  soft  black  lustring  with 
fringed  ends- — quite  mourning,  my  dear — Miss  Simmons 
wore  just  that  in  half-black  for  her  brother.” 

“If  aunt  doesn’t  object,  I  should  prefer  it  to  any  colours, 
or  bows,  or  flowers,”  said  Winnie,  timidly,  her  colour  coming 
and  going. 

“  I  think  it  looks  very  neat  and  nice,”  declared  Miss  Whit¬ 
ney;  “but  what  do  you  want  to  wear  mourning  for,  child?” 

Winnie  paused,  the  flush  deepening  on  her  cheeks,  and 
then  she  spoke  the  truth  in  her  own  simple  way. 

“  There  will  be  a  funeral  to-morrow  morning  in  the  Eng¬ 
lish  cemetery — an  English  stranger’s  funeral;  and  I  should 
like  to  go,  if  you  will  not  forbid  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  go, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


109 


aunt  dear,”  said  Winnie,  sinking  beside  her  aunt’s  chair,  and 
laying  her  face  on  one  of  the  grim,  hard,  carved  arms,  “  and 
must  wear  a  little  token  of  mourning  for  the  poor  young 
English  stranger  that  they  are  going  to  bury  in  that  sunny 
corner,  like  h  e  place  where  my  mother  is  buried  in  Trewillian 
churchyard.” 

“Land  sakes,  I  never  heard  such  a  queer  girl  as  you  are!” 
ejaculated  Miss  Whitney.  “  Who  on  earth  is  it?  And  what 
do  you  want  to  go  to  the  funeral  for?” 

“  Oh,  it’s  the  poor  young  fellow  that  was  hurt  in  the  rail¬ 
way  accident  a  month  ago,  I  guess,”  said  Miss  Green,  wiping 
her  eyes.  “It  was  very  sad,  Miss  Whitney;  he  was  a  young 
English  officer  from  Canada,  down  on  leave  to  New  York, 
and  the  poor  fellow  was  so  badly  hurt  that  time  when  the 
cars  ran  off  the  rails — a  month  ago,  you  remember — that  he 
had  to  be  just  carried  into  Farmer  Healy’s,  at  Place  Yale, 
and  has  been  lying  there  ever  since.  I  heard  that  he  was 
dead  yesterday  morning.  It’s  very  sad,  poor  young  fellow!” 

“  He  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  dear  aunt  Sarah,” 
Winifred  pleaded — “  no  mother  or  sister  to  nurse  him,  or 
weep  for  him  now  that  he  is  dead;  and  I  thought  that  per¬ 
haps  some  one  that  loved  him  in  England  would  be  glad  if  I 
followed  him  to  the  grave,  and  planted  a  few  flowers  there.” 

She  was  weeping  now  from  the  depths  of  her  tender  emo¬ 
tion,  and,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  there  were  no  dry 
eyes  with  those  who  had  heard  her  speak. 

“Won’t  you  play  something,  Miss  Caerlyon,  my  dear?” 
said  the  school-mistress,  gently,  some  time  afterwards. 

And  Winifred,  feeling  as  if  it  were  a  consecration  of  her 
aunt’s  kind  gift,  played  softly  and  solemnly,  while  her  tears 
fell  for  the  young  soldier’s  memory,  “The  Dead  March 
in  Saul.” 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

It  was  the  last  ball  of  the  season — this  grand  exclusive  recep¬ 
tion  at  Lady  Hollingsley’s — and  all  Belgravia  and  Tyburnia, 
from  the  Dan  to  the  Beersheeba  of  the  fashionable  world,  was 
astir  with  eagerness  to  obtain  cards  of  invitation;  for  the  last 
ball  of  the  season  at  Hollingsley  House  was  not  as  other 
balls — rather  was  it  viewed  as  the  reserved  piece  of  music  to 
adorn  the  wind-uo  of  a  soiree  musicale ,  the  grand  chorus  of  a 


110  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 

festival,  the  final  dazzling  burst  of  splendour  of  a  pyrotech¬ 
nic  exhibition,  the  triumphal  march,  with  bands  playing, 
colours  flying,  arms  burnished,  uniforms  gleaming  and  glow¬ 
ing,  of  a  conquering  army  quitting  a  well-won  field. 

For  the  pleasure  of  an  evening  in  Lady  Hollingsley’s  airy, 
elegant,  brilliantly-lighted  rooms,  amidst  the  wearers  of 
coronets,  the  great,  the  gifted,  the  nobles  by  rank  and  by 
nature — for  Lady  Hollingsley  gave  as  much  honour  to  one  as 
to  the  other — for  the  chances  of  boudoir  tete-a-tetes ,  of  semi¬ 
royal  quadrilles,  of  a  supper  over  which  laudatory  newspaper 
paragraphs  exhausted  their  stock  of  French  encomiums — for 
honours  and  glories  and  delights  like  these,  and  more,  chape¬ 
rons  and  debutantes ,  wives  and  mothers,  young  men  and 
maidens,  old  men  and  staid  maidens,  intrigued  and  hoped, 
and  were  disappointed  or  rejoiced,  according  as  Louisa,  Lady 
Hollingsley,  selected  to  pass  over  or  delighted  to  honour. 

It  was  the  last  ball  of  the  season,  but  it  had  not  quite  ar¬ 
rived  yet.  It  was  fixed  for  the  twenty-eighth  of  July,  and 
guests  were  not  expected  to  arrive  before  ten  p.  m.  It  was 
now  a  little  more  than  ten  a.  m.,  and  the  guests  expectant  had 
scarcely  emerged  from  their  bed  chambers,  if,  indeed,  the 
weary  debutantes  and  wearier  chaperons  before  alluded  to 
had  risen  from  their  pillows  at  all. 

“  I  am  sure,  my  love,”  said  one  weary  chaperon,  loosely 
robed  in  mauve  silk-embroidered  cachemire,  .seated  in  an 
easy  chair,  and  languidly  sipping  chocolate,  “  I  never  expect¬ 
ed  for  a  moment  to  see  you  until  luncheon-time,  after  that 
wearisome  musical  affair  of  last  night.” 

“Why  did  you  go  then?”  coolly  demanded  the  ungrateful 
debutante.  “  I  am  sure  it  afforded  no  particular  delight  to 
me  to  hear  those  wretched  fugues,  and  syncopated  passages, 
and  solos,  and  shrieking  violins,  and  moaning  violoncellos  for 
three  hours.” 

“  Nor  to  me,  Miss  Tredennick!  ”  retorted  the  chaperon, 
sharply.  “  I  went  simply  for  the  reason  that  brought  me  up 
from  my  quiet  country  home  to  undergo  the  fatigue  and  tur¬ 
moil  of  a  London  season.” 

Mildred  Tredennick  was  silent.  She  was  weary  of  the 
subject  at  issue  between  her  clever,  indomitable,  self-willed, 
handsome  aunt  and  herself — as  weary  as  she  was  of  the 
London  season. 

“  Three  more  years  nearly  before  I  shall  be  twenty-one,” 
she  thought,  wearily;  “I  am  only  eighteen  and  seven  months. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  HI 

What  is  the  use  of  having  money  and  being  handsome?  I 
might  as  well  be  a  slave  to  aunt  Vivian.” 

The  thought  was  perhaps  a  little  unjust  to  “  aunt  Vivian,” 
for  it  was  certain  that,  if  Mildred  Tredennick  was  a  slave  to 
that  lady’s  worldly  projects  and  purposes,  she  was  an  ex¬ 
tremely  rebellious  and  troublesome  one. 

“  I  declare,”  Madam  often  exclaimed,  from  the  very  depths 
of  her  vexed  soul,  to  her  nephew,  Stephen  Tredennick,  “if 
Mildred  Tredennick  marries  a  coronet,  I  shall  deserve  it 
much  more  than  she!” 

And  Stephen  Tredennick  as  often  advised,  “  Then  don’t 
trouble  yourself  to  marry  her  to  a  coronet,”  but  little  hoping 
that  it  would  be  of  the  slightest  avail  to  restrain  Madam 
Vivian  from  the  course  of  worldly  policy,  contriving,  schem¬ 
ing,  and  match-making  which  she  was  so  desperately  pursu¬ 
ing  for  her  troublesome  ward. 

Madam  had  almost  totally  despaired  of  the  match  she  had 
first  so  fondly  planned.  Even  if  she  could  coax  and  flatter 
Mildred  into  wedding  the  cousin  whom  she  loved  as  a  broth¬ 
er,  she  could  not  persuade  Stephen  Tredennick  to  marry  the 
beautiful,  haughty,  high-spirited  girl  on  whom  his  quiet,  ten¬ 
der  affections  could  never  rest  in  perfect  peace  as  his  wife 
and  comforter — the  dear,  gentle,  soft-handed,  sweet-voiced, 
loving  woman  he  sometimes  dreamily  pictured  as  his  wife, 
if  such  he  might  ever  possess — some  one  to  sit  by  his  side  at 
the  fire  while  he  smoked  or  read  the  paper,  some  one  to  write 
him  long  loving  letters  when  he  was  away,  some  one  to  long 
and  pray  for  each  safe  return,  to  make  the  dreary  old  house 
at  Tregarthen  a  happy,  sunny  home,  alive  with  children’s 
voices,  playing  in  the  light  of  a  gentle  mother’s  smile. 

Imperial,  self-willed  Mildred  Tredennick  was  to  him  as  a 
beautiful  sister,  of  whom  he  was  proud,  and  for  whom  he 
was  very  anxious.  Those  restless,  reckless,  brilliant  ones  are 
so  often  a  source  of  pain  and  anxiety  to  the  quiet  hearts  that 
love  them  !  Besides,  Stephen  Tredennick  knew  that  passion¬ 
ate,  strong-willed,  fiery  Mildred’s  girlish  heart  was  given 
away,  never,  by  a  nature  like  hers,  to  be  quite  recalled  again. 

“  I  wish  aunt  Vivian  knew  all  that  Millie  has  told  me,”  he 
said,  regretfully;  “  she  might  spare  herself  the  trouble  of 
trying  to  make  her  marry  a  coronet — for  she  is  one  to  give 
her  hand  with  her  heart,  in  spite  of  a  world  arrayed  against 
her.  Poor  Millie!  ” 

“Poor  Millie”  did  hot  look,  on  this  morning  of  Lady 
Hollingsley’s  ball,  as  if  she  quite  deserved  the  cousinly  pity. 


112 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


She  was  decidedly  in  one  of  her  most  arrogant  and  sarcastic 
moods;  and  both  the  chaperon  and  the  chaperon’s  maid — 
much-enduring  Miss  Trewhella — had  to  suffer  in  consequence. 

“What  an  intolerable  nuisance  it  is!  ”  she  said,  crossly,  as 
Miss  Trewhella  and  Mildred’s  own  maid  divested  her  of  her 
morning-robe,  and  fitted  on  a  silken  corsage,  which  had  just 
been  altered  beneath  Madam  Vivian’s  inspection.  “  When 
are  you  going  to  leave  town,  aunt?  ” 

“  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  leave  this  morning,  Miss  Tre- 
dennick?  ”  Madam  retorted,  with  the  cold  gleam  of  a  stormy 
smile,  evidencing  plainly  that  she  was  losing  temper.  “  It 
doesn’t  matter  about  Lady  Hollingsley’s  ball.” 

“  Oh,  but  it  does  though,”  objected  Mildred,  with  a  slight 
laugh,  “  for  I  have  extorted  a  solemn  promise  from  Stephen 
to  be  there,  and  to  dance  at  least  three  times  with  me;  he 
cares  as  much  for  the  affair  as  I  do,  but  we  mean  to  try  to 
enjoy  ourselves.” 

There  was  little  hope  in  this  for  Madam’s  first  project, 
which  she  was  almost  content  to  abandon,  considering  the 
unattainable  grapes  to  be  sour  in  comparison  with  the  luscious¬ 
ly  rich  ones  bending  at  hand.  Mildred  might  never  be  her 
favourite  nephew’s  wife,  but  it  would  be  something  after  all 
to  be  aunt  by  marriage  to  a  most  complaisant  peer  of  the 
realm,  who  declared  to  intimate  friends  that  he  admired  the 
aunt  almost  as  much  as  the  niece. 

“  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself,  my  dear,”  said  Madam, 
suavely;  “  a  debutante  of  eighteen,  one  of  the  belles  of  the 
season,  at  a  ball  at  Hollingsley  House,  wearing  one  of  Worth’s 
dresses,  ought  to  enjoy  herself — not  to  allude  to  such  things,” 
Madam  added,  more  suavely,  brightly  smiling — “  such  addi¬ 
tions  to  the  pleasures  of  a  splendid  festive  gathering  as  de¬ 
voted  partners  who  wear  coronets.” 

Mildred  frowned  at  herself  in  the  mirror — she  was  fond  of 
standing  before  mirrors,  this  girl  who  was  wealthy,  hand¬ 
some,  and  not  nineteen. 

“  I  wonder  how  many  devoted  partners  wearing  coronets  I 
should  have  if  I  had  had  small-pox,”  she  rejoined,  slight- 
ingly.  . 

“  If  it  had  disfigured  you,  not  one,”  Madam  affirmed,  cool¬ 
ly;  “  titled  and  untitled  would  leave  you  to  vegetate  as  a  wall¬ 
flower  then,  Mildred.  Prize  your  beauty  while  it  lasts,  my 
dear.” 

Mildred  was  in  one  of  her  worst  moods;  her  nerves  and 
temper  were  somewhat  upset  and  unstrung  by  three  months 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


113 


of  the  fashionable  slavery  which  *  her  nature,  yet  fresh  and 
pure  and  healthy,  revolted  from  so  constantly;  and  Madam 
Vivian’s  smooth  worldliness  jarred  on  angry  Mildred  very 
roughly. 

“  Why  should  I  prize  it,  Madam?”  she  asked,  sharply.  “I 
don’t  want  to  be  ugly,  but  I  don’t  see  any  reason  to  set  such 
a  wonderful  value  on  my  beauty.  It  will  last  long  enough, 
I  dare  say,  and  I  don’t  see  that  it  has  done  anything  particu¬ 
lar  for  me,  or  need  do  anything.  I  don’t  intend  to  sell  it 
for  money — I  have  enough  of  my  own  to  satisfy  me.  I  want 
my  liberty,”  the  young  debutante  cried,  arrogantly — “  my 
liberty  to  go  where  I  please,  ancT  when  I  please,  and  be 
independent  of  every  one,  if  I  please!  I  should  like  to  go 
up  the  Mediterranean,  or  the  Nile,  instead  of  baking  in  this 
hot,  detestable,  dusty  town;  I’d  like  to  go  wandering  about 
over  the  world,  to  go  to  India  with  a  regiment,”  continued 
Mildred,  waxing  reckless  before  her  aunt’s  haughty  eyes  and 
cold  smile — “  go  up  to  the  hills,  preside  over  Indian  race¬ 
courses,  ride  out  to  a  boar  or  a  tiger  hunt,  and  live  in  a 
bungalow!” 

Madame  Vivian  with  the  utmost  pleasure  could  have  boxed 
her  niece’s  ears  with  her  own  white  hands,  but  she  con¬ 
strained  herself  with  an  effort,  and,  clever  woman  as  she 
was,  recovered  her  smiles  and  easy,  graceful  manner  in  a  few 
moments. 

“  I  am  not  quite  sure  about  the  boar  and  tiger  hunting, 
Millie,  dear,”  she  said,  with  a  light  laugh;  “  but  I  think 
you  may  be  able  to  realize  your  Nile  and  Mediterranean 
longings  before  another  year.” 

“Yes,”  Mildred  muttered,  angrily,  to  herself,  “in  that 
odious  Lord  Mountrevor’s  yacht!  That  would  just  suit  him 
and  Madam  both!  They  would  drive  me  mad  in  six  weeks 
— the  clever  intriguing  of  the  one,  and  the  inane  platitudes 
of  the  other — a  painted,  padded  fop!” 

She  was  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  while  Madam  superin¬ 
tended  some  millinery  preparations  in  an  adjoining  apart¬ 
ment,  and,  wearily  surveying  the  dingy  houses,  the  rows  of 
first-floor  windows,  the  trim,  flower-covered  balconies,  the 
white  pavements,  the  dull,  dusty  decorousness  of  the  dull, 
fashionable  street,  Mildred  let  her  thoughts  fly  off  as  birds 
from  a  cage  to  the  vista  which  her  own  wild,  reckless  words 
had  conjured  up — poor,  beautiful,  untamed,  prisoned  falcon 
as  she  was! 

“  Oh,  how  I  should  delight  in  it,”  she  said,  with  a  pasv* 

8 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


114 

sionate  gasp — “  to  be  free,  to  be  away  from  London,  and  fash¬ 
ionable  people,  and  dusty  streets,  and  crowded  ball-rooms, 
and  idiotic  partners  who  wear  coronets!  ” 

The  speech  seemed  rather  an  inconsistent  one  for  a  young 
lady  who  habitually  wore  Paris-made  robes,  and  was  par¬ 
ticular  about  the  shade  of  her  parasol  and  gloves  being  in 
perfect  unison.  But  Mildred  Tredennick,  loving  beauty  and 
beautiful  things  just  for  their  own  sake,  and  possessing  an 
innate  exquisite  taste  for  colours  and  effects  which  could 
endure  no  outrage  of  its  perception,  always  chose  just  as  that 
perfect  taste  guided  her,  were  the  cost  little  or  much.  It 
generally  was  much;  but  then,  as  she  said  in  her  own  girlish 
phraseology,  she  had  “ money  enough;”  and,  moreover, 
Mildred  Tredennick  was  charmingly  inconsistent  at  all  times. 

“  And  how  I  should  like  to  go  to  India,  and  ride  at  day¬ 
break — a  long  stretching  gallop  by  the  sea-shore,  as  Bertie 
told  me  he  used  to  have!”  And  then  the  caged  falcon 
drooped  her  proud  head,  and  a  dreary  look  clouded  her  bright 
eyes.  “  Bertie,  my  darling,”  Mildred  whispered  with  a  ten¬ 
der  glow  and  soft  flickering  smile  on  her  face  that  peer 
or  coronet  never  could,  never  would  bring  there,  “  why  don’t 
you  write  to  me?  Bertie,  my  own  dear  love,  three  long 
months,  and  not  a  line!  Oh,  Bertie,  what  would  I  not  give 
to  be  free  to  ramble  about  the  world  with  you!  How  happy 
we  should  be!” 

“  You  are  an  exceedingly  extravagant  girl,  my  dear,”  said 
Madam,  re-entering  the  room;  “but  I  must  say  that  that 
dress,  with  those  graduated  shades  of  blue  satin  and  poult-de- 
soie ,  and  that  exquisite  white  Brussels  lace,  is  simply  per¬ 
fection.” 

But  exquisite  dresses  were  no  novelty  to  Miss  Tredennick; 
and,  besides,  she  felt  weary  and  low-spirited  to-day.  She 
positively  refused  to  “  try  on  ”  the  dress,  saying  that  one  an¬ 
noyance  of  the  kind  was  sufficient. 

“Don’t  you  feel  well,  Mildred?”  Madam  asked  at  length, 
with  the  air  of  one  who  was  enduring  martyrdom. 

“No,  I  don’t,”  replied  Mildred,  shortly. 

“You  had  better  lie  down,  and  let  Morton  or  Trewhella 
bathe  your  head  with  eau-de-cologne,  and  take  a  little  red 
lavender,”  advised  Madam,  in  the  same  tone. 

“  Nonsense,  Madam,”  cried  Miss  Tredennick,  almost  rudely; 
“  I  never  surrender  myself  helplessly  into  the  hands  of  serv¬ 
ants  when  I  feel  out  of  sorts,  to  be  fussed  about  and  nursed 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  115 

like  a  sick  lap-dog.”  And  the  curtained  doorway  fluttered 

and  the  door  banged  as  Miss  Tredennick  swept  out. 

******* 

“  And  you  have  no  conception,  Stephen,”  Madam  said,  late 
that  evening  to  her  nephew,  who  had  come  to  dine  with  them, 
and  later  still  to  escort  them  to  Hollingsley  House — “  you 
have  no  conception  how  Mildred  has  tried  me  to-day!  First 
about  her  dress,  which  she  would  not  try  on,  though  it  re¬ 
quires  some  alteration,  and  then  about  Lord  Mountrevor,  who 
called  at  three  o’clock  and  she  would  not  see  him!  I  can  not 
tell  what  is  the  matter  with  the  girl,”  concluded  Madam, 
almost  in  despair.  “I  will  not  undertake  her  chaperonage 
during  another  season  if  she  does  not  alter.  I  must  say  that 
she  is  not  much  comfort  or  society  to  me  either.” 

At  the  moment  Madam  would  not  for  her  fortune  three 
times  over  have  welcomed  her  unmanageable  ward  as  her  quiet, 
affectionate,  kind-hearted  nephew’s  wife,  and  at  the  same  mo¬ 
ment,  oddly  enough,  with  her  final  words,  her  thoughts  went 
with  sudden  quick  regret  to  one  who  had  been  the  most 
thoughtful,  patient,  gentle,  obedient,  and  agreeable  of  young 
companions. 

“Poor  little  Winnie!”  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  sigh.  “If 
Mildred  were  ten  times  as  handsome  and  clever,  she  would 
never  be  one-half  as  amiable  and  lovable  as  that  poor  foolish 
little  creature!” 

“  Blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight.”  Winnie, 
departed  to  an  unattainable  distance,  gone  from  all  chance  of 
exerting  the  wiles  and  charms  which  Madam’s  jealous  suspi¬ 
cion  dreaded,  had  become  quite  a  treasure  to  be  mourned 
over  and  a  standard  whereby  to  measure. 

“If  the  silly  petulant  little  thing  had  not  rushed  off  to 
America  in  that  absurd  and  ungrateful  fashion,  without  even 
coming  to  bid  me  good-bye,  I  should  have  taken  her  back 
again,  perhaps,”  Madam  mused. 

“  Cousin  Stephen,”  said  Mildred,  wearily,  as  she  entered  a 
few  minutes  afterwards,  and  they  stood  in  one  of  the  deep 
windows  together,  “you  have  no  idea  what  a  heavy,  weary, 
dull,  miserable  day  this  has  been.  And,  do  you  know,  Ste¬ 
phen,  strangely  enough,  I  have  been  thinking  of  Winnie 
Caerlyon  all  the  afternoon.  I  know  she  was  a  nice  gentle 
little  creature  from  what  Madam  says,  and  I  am  sure  she  was 
sensible  and  pleasant  to  talk  with  from  what  you  say;  and  I 
have  been  wishing  all  the  day  that  I  had  her  to  chat  with  me, 
and  bathe  my  head,  or  help  me  to  cry,  or  scold,  or  something 


116 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MORNING. 


— I  wouldn’t  let  Morton  hear  me.  Aunt  Vivian  has  been 
in  terrible  dudgeon  with  me;  and,  as  for  that  disagreeable, 
sly,  crafty  woman,  her  maid,  I  should  like  to  see  her  come 
nursing  me  and  bathing  my  head,  as  Madam  proposed!  I 
believe  she  poisoned  Madam’s  mind  against  Winnie  Caerlyon, 
and  I  told  her  so!” 

“  What  did  Madam  say?”  asked  Stephen  Tredennick,  try¬ 
ing  to  restrain  a  smile. 

“Oh,  she  inquired,  in  her  grandiloquent  way,”  replied  Mil¬ 
dred,  sarcastically,  “what  interest  I  could  possibly  take  in  a 
person  of  whom  I  knew  nothing  whatever.  And  I  told  her 
that  cousin  Stephen  liked  her,  and  that  that  was  quite  suffi¬ 
cient  reason  for  me  to  take  an  interest  in  her.” 

“  What  did  she  say  to  that  ?  ”  Captain  Tredennick  ques¬ 
tioned  again. 

“Nothing,”  replied  Mildred,  with  a  careless  shrug;  “she 
knew  that  I  should  keep  on  saying  more  and  more  astound¬ 
ing  things,  so  she  was  silent.  Poor  little  Winnie  !  I  think 
she  was  cruelly  used,  Stephen  ;  and  I  meant  to  let  every  one 
know  that  such  was  my  thought,  only  that  she  went  away, 
unfortunately,  in  that  sudden  manner.” 

“Perhaps  it  was  better  for  her,  poor  child,”  suggested 
Stephen  Tredennick,  rather  gloomily ;  “  she  seemed  to  have 
a  good  many  foes  and  very  few  friends.” 

And  for  a  few  minutes  the  last  speaker’s  thoughts  went 
after  the  exiled  little  maiden  with  regret,  and  vain  longing 
for  her  presence. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

At  half-past  nine  o’clock  Stephen  Tredennick  returned 
from  his  hotel,  and  was  ushered  by  smirking,  curtseying 
Miss  Trewhella  at  once  into  Madam’s  dressing-room,  where 
he  found  his  relative  robed  in  black  moire  antique ,  point  lace, 
crimson  velvety  roses,  and  point  lappets  on  her  silvery, 
abundant  hair,  and  diamonds  scintillating  on  her  white 
plump  hands,  her  round  wrists,  her  neck,  and  from  her 
dainty  aristocratic  ears,  as  if  they  were  dewdrops  fallen 
from  the  drooping  roses  in  her  hair.  She  was  very  magnifi¬ 
cent,  but  she  was  in  consternation — almost  in  tears. 

“  She  won’t  go,  Stephen!”  Madam  cried,  breathless  with 
alarm  and  excitement  and  excessive  vexation.  “  There  was 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MOENING. 


117 

never  any  one  more  tried  than  I  have  been  this  day!  I  posi¬ 
tively  declare  that  Miss  Tredennick  shall  return  to  her  father 
and  mother  to-morrow,  and  let  them  send  her  to  a  strict 
school  or  convent,  or  wherever  they  like  best — I  wash  my 
hands  of  her!” 

“  Why  does  she  refuse?”  Stephen  Tredennick  asked,  in 
surprise  and  trouble. 

“How  can  I  tell?”  Madam  exclaimed,  sharply,  almost 
beside  herself  from  vexation.  “  Because  of  one  of  her 
never-ending,  abominably  obstinate  whims,  I  suppose!” 

“  Let  me  see  her,  aunt,”  Captain  Tredennick  said,  depre- 
catingly — “  perhaps  Millie  is  not  well.” 

“Perfectly  well,”  asserted  Madam,  with  a  stamp  of  her 
foot;  whereat  Miss  Trewhella  chuckled  internally. 

That  worthy  young  woman  was  resolved  to  endure  no  rival 
in  her  mistress’s  consideration,  and  strove,  in  her  meek, 
enduring  hypocrisy  of  affectionate  devotion  and  her  power 
of  sly  dealing,  to  aid  in  widening  the  breach  between  her 
mistress  and  her  haughty  niece  by  every  means  in  her  power, 
were  it  only  by  the  finest  point  of  a  knife-like  wedge.  Miss 
Tredennick,  who  had  been  an  object  of  fear  to  her  from  the 
first,  and  of  jealous  envy,  had  become  latterly  simply  an 
object  of  spiteful  hatred,  since  Miss  Tredennick’s  own  maid 
was  now  the  recipient  of  Miss  Tredennick’s  lavish  presents. 

“  Perfectly  well,”  Madam  repeated  ;  “  but,  if  you  think 
you  can  talk  that  self-willed,  unmanageable  girl  into  reason, 
you  are  mistaken.  You  are  at  liberty  to  try.” 

She  dropped  indignantly  down  on  a  seat,  almost  regardless 
of  her  superb  moire  antique  and  point  lace. 

“Trewhella,  tell  Morton  that  Captain  Tredennick  wishes 
to  speak  to  her  mistress.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Stephen  Tredennick,  coldly,  passing 
out  before  the  obsequious  handmaiden,  “don’t  trouble  your¬ 
self.  My  •cousin  will  see  me,  I  have  no  doubt.” 

“Oh,  sir,”  objected  Miss  Trewhella,  stopping  the  way  with 
an  alarmed  curtsey  and  shake  of  the  head,  “you — you  can’t, 
sir — really,  sir!  Miss  Tredennick’s  tout  ong  dizabilly ,  sir.” 

Captain  Tredennick  put  his  strong  hand  on  the  woman’s 
arm,  quietly  put  her  aside,  and  knocked  at  Mildred’s  dressing- 
room  door.  The  young  maid,  a  neat,  pretty  girl,  with  a 
frightened  face  and  flurried  manner,  opened  it  instantly. 

“  She’s  there,  sir,”  she  whispered,  in  reply  to  his  query, 
and,  motioning  him  toward  one  side  of  the  dimly-lighted  room, 
she  gladly  escaped  for  a  while  from  its  precincts. 


118 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


“  Millie,  my  dear  girl,  are  you  not  well?  What  is  the 
matter?”  The  Captain  groped  his  way  to  the  shaded  lamp, 
turned  on  a  bright  blaze  of  gas,  lit  the  extinguished  wax- 
candles  at  the  mirror,  and  then  he  saw  Mildred  lying  on  the 
sofa,  her  face  turned  away  and  buried  in  the  cushions — 
more  as  if  she  had  flung  herself  there  in  pain  or  misery 
than  for  repose,  with  the  voluminous  folds  of  her  dinner- 
dress  lying  on  the  carpet,  her  rich  hair  all  disordered,  and 
one  hand  convulsively  clasped. 

The  room  was  filled  with  light  and  the  beauty  of  rich, 
brilliant  robes.  Stephen  Tredennick  scarcely  knew  where  to 
stand  or  sit  or  kneel  for  webs  of  costly  lace-like  frost-work, 
for  trailing  satin  or  tulle,  for  tiny  white-satin  shoes,  for  jewel- 
cases  and  bouquet-holders,  and  essence-bottles,  and  glove- 
boxes,  and  gorgeous  Cashmere  wrappers.  Miss  Tredennick 
let  none  of  her  eight  hundred  a  year  lie  idly  by. 

“Millie  dear,  what  is  the  matter?  Won’t  you  tell  me?” 
he  asked,  coaxingly.  “We  are  always  allies,  Millie — my 
dear  cousin,  what  ails  you?” 

“  Nothing,  Stephen,”  said  Mildred,  sitting  up;  and  then 
she  burst  into  tears.  “Nothing  ails  me.  I  am  perfectly  well, 
as  Madam  has  just  told  me,  in  a  rage;  but  I  feel  as  if  I  would 
rather  be  put  into  a  prison  cell  than  go  to  this  hateful  ball ! 
I  suppose  I  am  over-tired,  or  something.  There  is  no  use  in 
Madam’s  forcing  me  to  go.  I  can’t  dance,  or  speak,  or  do 
anything  but  sit  down  and  cry;  my  heart  seems  like  lead, 
Stephen — something  must  be  going  to  happen  to  me.” 

Stephen  Tredennick’s  kind  broad  brow  darkened. 

“ Nothing  is  going  to  happen  to  you,  my  dear,”  he  said, 
kindly;  “  it  is  just  what  you  say  yourself.  You  are  over-tired, 
Millie  dear;  and  I  must  say  that  it  is  a  shame  to  force  any 
young  girl  in  this  mill-round  of  staying  up  at  night  when  she 
ought  to  be  asleep,  and  sleeping  when  she  ought  to  be  up,  as 
fresh  as  the  flowers.  Dress  yourself,  dear,  for  this  last  time, 
and  I  promise  that  you  shall  have  no  more  ball-going  this 
year.  Hurry,  Millie,  dear;  your  aunt’s  quite  ready.” 

“Oh,  of  course!”  cried  Mildred,  bitterly.  “If  I  were 
ready  to  drop  down  dead,  and  Madam  had  said  that  I  should 
go  somewhere,  she  would  just  go  on  with  her  toilette  as 
calmly  and  carefully  as  usual,  and  come  in  ten  minutes  too 
soon,  with  the  last  button  of  her  glove  fastened,  to  know  if 
I  was  ready.” 

“  If  you  feel  ill,  my  dear  cousin,  you  shall  not  go,”  said 
Stephen  Tredennick,  decidedly. 


119 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

“  I  am  not  in  the  least  ill,  I  tell  you,  Stephen,”  Mildred  re¬ 
iterated,  ringing  her  bell  violently.  “  There,  go  away,  and 
tell  Madam  not  to  suffer  any  more  anguish  of  mind  on  ac¬ 
count  of  my  obstinacy.  I  shall  go,  and  she  may  thank  herself 
for  whatever  happens.” 

Her  heavy  eyes  and  pallid  cheeks  lit  up  with  burning, 
angry  determination,  and  Stephen  Tredennick  went  away 
unwillingly. 

“  I  am  sure  Mildred  is  not  well,  aunt,”  he  said,  as  they  sat 
awaiting  her  coming  in  the  drawing-room — “  she  seems  so 
feverish  and  nervous.” 

“Very!”  returned  Madam,  sarcastically,  adjusting  the 
wide  black  velvet  and  splendid  flashing  diamond  solitaire 
that  adorned  her  smooth  white  bare  neck  above  the  point 
lace  of  her  corsage.  Widow  of  fifty-seven  as  she  was,  she 
showed  as  handsome  a  pair  of  shoulders,  albeit  a  little  less 
of  them,  as  she  did  at  twenty-seven.  “Very,  Stephen! 
That  is,  you  mean  to  say,  calling  things  by  their  right  names, 
that  she  exhibits  a  great  deal  of  spoiled-child  impertinence 
and  ill  temper.” 

“  I  think  both  her  temper  and  manner  decidedly  deteriorated 
since  she  came  to  town,”  said  her  nephew,  decidedly.  “  Mil¬ 
dred  was  never  ill-tempered  or  disagreeable  before;  and  she 
certainly  seems  thoroughly  unhappy  and  dispirited  this  even- 
ing.” 

“  Unhappy  and  dispirited!  ”  echoed  Madam,  scoffingly — “I 
dare  say.  It  injures  Miss  Tredennick’s  health  very  consider¬ 
ably  not  to  have  her  own  will  and  way  in  everything.  She 
informed  me  this  morning  that  she  wanted  her  liberty  to  go 
where  she  liked,  and  when  she  liked;  and  she  has  been  sulk¬ 
ing  the  livelong  day  because  she  hasn’t  this  privilege,  I  sup¬ 
pose.  Really  Marion  Tredennick  is  not  to  be  congratulated 
on  her  method  of  training  her  eldest  daughter. 

“  She  looks  ill,  at  all  events,  and  has  been  crying  bitterly,” 
said  poor  Stephen,  feeling  himself  to  be,  in  a  measure,  be¬ 
tween  two  fires — for  Madam  appeared  to  grow  more  irate. 

“  I  have  the  prospect  of  a  charming  evening  before  me,” 
she  observed,  stamping  her  tiny  foot — “  to  play  chaperon  to 
an  unwilling  young  lady,  who  has  been  sulking,  and  com¬ 
plaining  of  low  spirits,  and  crying — to  chaperon  her  in  the 
rooms  of  Hollingsley  House,  before  the  best  people  in  town!  ” 

Perplexed  and  distressed,  Stephen  Tredennick  began  to 
wish  earnestly,  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as  for  that  of  others, 
that  the  last  ball  of  the  season  was  well  over,  when,  to  his 


120 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


intense  relief,  he  heard  the  rustling  of  silken  robes  descend¬ 
ing  the  staircase,  and  presently  Mildred  entered.  She  was 
dressed  in  her  splendid  robes  of  shimmering  blue  satin,  of 
varied  shades  of  brightness,  and  clouded  over  with  a  delicate, 
frost-like,  misty  veiling  of  snowy  lace,  with  clustering  white 
roses  in  her  rich  chestnut  hair,  and  white  roses  in  her  jew¬ 
elled  bouquetiere.  The  delicate  hues  and  fresh  pure  bright¬ 
ness  of  her  costume,  like  the  cerulean  tints  and  fleecy  cloud- 
shadows  of  a  morning  sky,  marvellously  became  the  proud 
brilliant  beauty,  those  flushed  cheeks  and  bright  dark  eyes, 
those  curving  red  lips  and  flashing  white  teeth,  the  wealth  of 
ruddy  golden-brown  hair,  the  lissom,  stately,  beautifully 
moulded  figure. 

******* 

“  So  much  for  Miss  Tredennick’s  low  spirits  and  ill-health, 
Stephen,  my  dear! 55  said  Madam,  too  satisfied  and  triumphant 
to  retain  much  ill-humour. 

They  were  sitting  together,  or  rather  Stephen  Tredennick 
was  graciously  permitted  to  form  one  of  his  aunt’s  little  court 
of  admirers  and  supporters — half-a-dozen  or  so — who  con¬ 
stantly  loitered  near  vivacious,  witty,  clever,  handsome  Madam 
Vivian  wherever  she  appeared  during  the  season;  and  Madam, 
with  a  sarcastic  smile,  indicated  Mildred’s  blue  dress  and 
white  roses  whirling  around  in  a  valse  a  trois  temps  with  Lord 
Mountrevor,  with  a  movement  of  her  plumed  white  fan, 
encrusted  with  tiny  spiculse  and  stars  of  jet  and  silver,  to 
represent  “  mourning.” 

“  I  am  very  glad  to  see  it,”  Stephen  Tredennick  returned, 
earnestly,  but  with  a  lurking  dissatisfaction  still. 

He  had  seen  Mildred  looking  brighter,  happier,  hand¬ 
somer,  many  a  time  than  she  looked  that  evening — a  belle 
and  beauty  in  her  glistening  azure  satin  and  lace  and  white 
roses.  He  hated  to  see  that  hard  arrogant  smile  on  her  fresh 
lips,  that  supercilious  droop  of  those  haughty  white  eyelids 
which  was  becoming  so  habitual.  She  looked  fevered  and 
restless,  for  all  her  beauty  and  gaiety.  Pie  hated  to  think  of 
gay,  high-spirited,  proud,  warm-hearted,  beautiful  young 
Mildred’s  being  transformed  into  one  of  those  cold,  hand¬ 
some,  heartless,  fashionable  women  whom  Madam  Vivian 
appeared  to  consider  the  perfection  of  high-bred  woman¬ 
hood.  He  hated  to  see  Plenry,  Lord  Mountrevor,  with  his 
arm  around  that  girlish  supple  waist — a  man  he  knew  to  be 
an  effeminate  dandy  ap$  a  roue  of  tiie  gracefully-immoral, 
elegantly-knavish  type*  with  not  braipg  enough  to  be  a  very 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  121 

great  or  clever  knave,  but  with  inclination  enough  to  be 
addicted  to  a  great  deal  of  knavery  and  immorality  of  a  rose¬ 
water-perfumed,  rose-colour-veiled  quality,  and  with  intel¬ 
ligence  and  ability  enough  to  enable  him  to  keep  the  out¬ 
side  of  his  own  particular  sepulchre  fairly  whited.  There 
was  not  any  great  or  particular  wickedness  in  the  polished 
nobleman,  nor  any  particular  good  worth  mentioning,  save 
his  intense  and  faithful  admiration  of  Mildred  Tredennick. 
But  Stephen  Tredennick  hated  to  think  of  his  beautiful 
young  cousin’s  bartering  herself  for  a  share  of  that  man’s 
name,  and  being  crowned  with  the  glory  of  a  coronet  from 
his  hand. 

Perhaps  she  knew  what  was  passing  in  the  Captain’s 
thoughts,  from  that  calm,  grave  expressive  face  of  his,  and 
the  anxious  looks  that  followed  her  from  his  kind  dark  eyes. 
Certain  it  is  that  of  the  three  dances  she  had  promised  him, 
Stephen  got  but  one,  and  then  Mildred  went  down  to  supper 
on  Lord  Mountrevor’s  arm.  Afterwards  her  cousin  caught 
but  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  brilliant,  excited  face  and 
tall  lissom  figure — in  pauses  of  the  dance,  in  momentary 
smiling  encounters  in  the  large,  well-filled  saloons,  through 
the  flower-laden  branches  of  exotics  and  the  misty  perfumed 
air,  amid  the  gleam  and  glow,  and  flash  and  glitter,  with  the 
soft,  sweet,  measured,  ringing  music  throbbing  in  unison 
with  every  pulse  of  gladness  in  one’s  being,  until  the  gray 
summer  dawn  crept  through  the  curtained  windows,  and  the 
rolling  away  of  carriages  with  their  occupants  left  the  great 
saloons  more  sparsely  filled,  and  bare  spaces  of  floor  here 
and  there  and  deserted  niches  in  corridors  and  boudoir  showed 
the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  ebbing  tide — fallen  faded 
flowers,  scraps  of  ribbon  and  lace,  long  remnants  of  tulle,  a 
dropped  cobweb  of  a  gauzy  handkerchief,  spangles  and 
trinkets.  The  tide  ebbed  away  faster  with  the  first  tremu¬ 
lous  golden  rays  of  the  new  day,  and  presently  the  last  ball 
of  the  season  was  over. 

“  Thank  goodness,  it  is  over!”  said  Stephen  Tredennick, 
with  relief,  as  he  followed  his  aunt  and  cousin,  carefully 
escorted  by  Lord  Mountrevor,  to  the  waiting  carriage,  and 
saw  the  peer,  as  he  pressed  Mildred’s  hand,  petition  quite 
fascinatingly  for  a  gift  which  she  seemed  scarcely  willing  to 
give,  though  it  was  but  one  drooping  white  rose  from  her 
fading  bouquet.  But  he  obtained  it,  nevertheless;  and,  as 
Mildred  watched  him  bowing  and  smiling,  with  the  soft 
white  rose  drooping  in  his  hand  as  they  drove  away,  her 


122 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


cousin  saw  a  quick,  passionate  revulsion  of  look  and  manner 
come  over  the  girl  as  she  took  the  rest  of  the  flowers  from 
the  gold  bouquetiere ,  and  flung  them  far  beyond  on  the  street 
pavement  from  the  carriage  window. 

Madam  Vivian  had  fallen  asleep,  muffled  up  in  a  crimson 
downy-wadded  sortie  du  bal ,  and  there  was  none  but  Stephen 
Tredennick  to  see. 

“  Why  did  you  do  that,  Mildred?”  he  asked,  gravely, 
almost  sternly. 

The  brilliance  and  glow  and  pride  were  fast  fading  from 
the  girl’s  weary  pale  face.  Her  bright  eyes  filled  with  sud¬ 
den  tears  at  her  cousin’s  question. 

“  I  was  sorry  I  gave  him  one,”  she  said,  with  a  contempt¬ 
uous  backward  glance  and  gesture  toward  Hollingsley  House. 
“  They  were  Bertie’s  favourites.  He  gave  me  a  cluster  of 
them  one  evening,  just  before  he  went  away.  He  liked  white 
roses  better  than  any  other  flowers — Bertie  did.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  dew-drops  were  beading  the  long  waving  grass,  and 
glittering  tremblingly  on  the  rustling  ivy  leaves,  which  shook 
off  the  translucent  gems,  in  a  passing  breath  of  the  sweet 
summer  morning  breeze,  down  upon  the  fresh,  rosy-tinted 
faces  of  the  little  daisies  beneath,  scarce  unclosed  as  yet  to 
the  warm  smile  of  the  sunlight.  The  blossoms  of  the  dewy 
white  roses  stirred  softly,  too,  and  the  perfumed  liquid  of 
their  snowy  chalices  dropped  on  the  thirsty  leaves  of  the 
purple-flowered  wild  geranium,  that  clustered  in  shrub-like 
scented  masses  of  downy  leaves  and  lilac-starred  petals. 

But  the  birds  were  silent  in  the  shadow  of  the  elm-trees; 
chirp  and  song  and  fluttering  gladness  alike  were  hushed. 
The  feathered  occupants  waited,  watching  in  fear  and  sur¬ 
prise,  to  see  the  final  issue  of  the  strange  invasion  of  that 
sunny,  peaceful  corner  by  the  elm  trees,  where  the  white 
roses  and  purple  geraniums  had  bloomed  in  wild  luxuriance 
for  so  many  years,  where  the  dark  clustering  ivy  twined  and 
crept  over  the  mossy  wall,  and  the  pink-tipped  daisies  starred 
the  sod — the  sunny,  peaceful  corner  in  the  old  English  ceme¬ 
tery  of  the  town  of  Winston,  State  of  Massachusetts,  United 
States  of  America. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


123 


Unwonted  and  strange  the  invasion  appeared;  for  the  peace 
and  quiet  of  that  little  old  out-of-the-way  cemetery  and  its 
weed-grown,  flower-grown  graves  was  seldom  disturbed  by 
the  arrival  of  another  occupant  for  one  of  the  many  narrow 
homes  in  that  silent  land.  More  seldom  still  was  one  brought 
to  the  sunny  corner  beneath  the  elm  trees — the  stranger’s 
corner — where  the  bones  of  a  score  of  shipwrecked  emigrants 
from  English  homes  far  over  the  sea  had  been  lying  more 
than  forty  years. 

Yet  was  one  coming  now;  for  the  new  home — oh,  so  nar¬ 
row,  so  dark,  so  cheerless — was  prepared,  and  the  pink-tinged 
daisies  and  tender  dewy  grasses,  cut  and  shorn  away,  drooped 
and  died,  heralding  the  arrival  of  the  new  tenant  to  his  home. 
Presently  a  group  of  dark-clothed  men  had  gathered,  and  one, 
robed  in  white,  with  open  book,  solemnly  gave  possession  to 
the  new  occupant  of  his  six  feet  of  earth  in  the  God’s-acre  of 
that  sunny  old  cemetery.  Then  the  small  group  of  men  laid 
the  stranger  down  in  that  strange  home  in  a  foreign  land, 
with  a  few  sighs  and  grave  sad  looks,  but  no  tears,  no  sobs, 
no  pallid  bereaved  faces;  there  were  only  a  few  grave,  sober 
men — no  women,  save  one,  and  she  was  weeping.  The  hour 
was  early,  the  cemetery  was  distant  from  the  town;  no  wo¬ 
men  were  there,  save  this  one,  who  was  young  and  pale  and 
fair,  and  wore  fresh  mourning  tokens,  and  quietly  wept  be¬ 
hind  her  thick  black  veil. 

She  had  a  cluster  of  beautiful  dewy  white  roses,  buds,  and 
half- blown  blossoms  in  her  hand;  and,  as  the  men  prepared 
to  lower  the  oak  coffin,  with  its  burnished  plate  flashing  in 
the  rays  of  the  morning  sun,  down,  down  from  the  flowers 
and  sunshine,  the  stirring  blossoms,  the  glittering  dew-drops, 
the  breath  of  the  sweet  summer  morning’s  life,  into  the 
dank,  deep,  silent  place  appointed,  she  pushed  gently  forward. 

“  If  you  please,  sir,  will  you  let  me — if  you  please,  sir?” 
she  begged  timidly  of  the  quiet,  gentlemanly  young  man 
before  her. 

“  Certainly — I  beg  your  pardon,”  he  said,  stepping  back 
with  alacrity,  and  glancing  with  quiet  interest  at  the  slender, 
girlish  figure  in  the  dark  dress,  and  with  the  cluster  of  white 
fragrant  flowers. 

The  oak  coffin  was  at  her  feet  as  she  moved  into  the 
vacated  place,  and,  kneeling  beside  it,  she  laid  the  dewy 
branches  of  roses  round  the  name-plate.  She  kept  back  one 
half-blown  flower,  and  it  was  wet  with  the  fast-falling  tears 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


124 

that  were  dropping  on  the  coffin  ere  she  could  hide  it  beneath 
her  veil. 

Then  the  adjusted  ropes  were  lowered,  and  the  coffin  and 
its  white  roses  soon  were  lying  down  there  where  light  and 
life  and  love  could  come  no  more  until  the  Resurrection 
morning. 

“A  friend  of  yours,  I  suppose?”  the  gentleman  asked, 
with  much  courteous  sympathy. 

“  I  never  saw  him — never  knew  anything  about  him  until 
he  was  dead,”  answered  Winifred  Caerlyon;  “but,  oh,  I  am 
sure  some  one  knows  him  and  loves  him  far  away  in  England, 
and  I  came  for  their  sakes!  ” 

Some  one  knew  him  and  loved  him  of  a  surety — that  hand¬ 
some  fair-haired  lad,  who  lay  beneath  that  coffin-lid  in  his 
lonely  grave,  with  Winifred  Caerlyon’s  white  roses  encircling 
his  name — 

ALBERT  GARDINER. 

Aged  22. 

Ensign  in  Her  Britannic  Majesty’s  8— th  Regiment  oe  Foot. 

Died  July  29,  18 — . 

Just  in  the  dawning  that  had  closed  the  last  ball  of  the 
season  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

As  one  that  had  passed  away  from  their  world  for  ever, 
yet  keeping  their  memories  of  her  fresh  and  living  by  mes¬ 
sages  of  love,  by  words  and  deeds  of  thoughtful  affection, 
with  her  gentle  presence,  her  patient  endurance,  her  cheerful 
laboriousness,  so  constantly  and  unavoidably  missed,  “  sister 
Winnie,”  far  away  in  North  America,  became  to  the 
younger  members  of  the  Caerlyon  family  a  dreamy,  mythical 
personage,  to  be  invested  with  all  manner  of  attributes  and 
perfections,  very  lovable  and  desirable,  and  much  to  be 
respected,  but  mythical.  Although  she  did  send  home  those 
bank-bills  to  “  mother  ”  that  put  her  in  such  a  good  temper 
for  the  whole  day,  and  the  picture-papers  to  Sarah  Matilda 
and  Tommy,  still  she  was  mythical.  “Sister  Winnie,”  who 
used  to  bake  the  bread,  and  wash  their  faces,  and  curl  Sarah 
Matilda’s  hair,  to  be  away  there  in  that  pink-bordered  country 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  125 

just  where  the  edge  of  the  atlas-map  came,  with  the  cold, 
blue-coloured  Atlantic  by  its  side — impossible! 

It  was  understood  on  all  hands  that  there  never  was  any¬ 
body — never  could  be  anybody — half  so  clever  so  accom¬ 
plished,  as  that  long-lost  mythical  “sister  Winnie;”  and, 
strangely  enough,  Winnie’s  once  harsh  step-mother  and  task- 
mistress  never  discouraged  this  ideal  by  word  or  deed. 

On  the  contrary,  Sarah  Matilda,  now  a  smart,  self  willed, 
high-tempered,  pretty  girl,  blooming  into  “  the  maiden-blos¬ 
soms  of  her  teens,”  grew  disheartened  sometimes  with  herself 
and  her  endeavours,  in  comparison  with  all  the  related  achieve¬ 
ments  and  perfections  she  was  so  often  reproachfully  remind¬ 
ed  of  as  belonging  solely  to  that  banished  elder  sister.  Did 
she  forget  a  message,  there  was  a  running  comment  on  the 
worthlessness  of  “  heedless  maids”  accompanying  the  lamen¬ 
tation  of  regret  for  the  “  nice,  quiet,  careful  ways  ”  of  the 
sister  who  never  forgot — “no,  not  if  she  was  sent  for  five-and- 
twenty  things  together!  ”  (Mrs.  Elizabeth  Anne  Caerlyon’s 
“  nagging  ”  powers  had  not  diminished  in  the  least.)  Did 
incipient  womanly  vanity  prompt  Sarah  Matilda  to  passion¬ 
ately  desire  fashionable  hats  and  white  feathers  therein,  and 
urge  her  mother  to  the  extravagant  purchase,  she  received 
scolding  homilies  without  number  relative  to  “  your  poor  sis¬ 
ter  Winnie,  who  never  asked  an  inch  of  cloth  she  could  do 
without.” 

Madam  of  Roseworthy,  when  she  mentally  compared  her 
self-willed,  proud,  handsome  niece  disadvantageously  with 
her  poor  little  summarily-dismissed  companion,  was  not  alone 
in*the  remorseful  rendering  of  justice  to  patient  Winnie 
Caerlyon. 

She  had  had  time  to  recall  the  sterling  memories  of  her 
gentleness,  kindness,  and  long-suffering — she  had  had  time 
to  remember  the  sweet  low  voice  that  was  heard  no  more, 
the  sweet  pale  face  that  she  could  never  see — she  had  had 
time  to  think  of  these  things  in  seven  years — of  late  years 
even  more  than  at  first. 

And  so  came  to  pass  the  truth — strange  and  strangely  flat¬ 
tering,  as  the  meed  awarded  to  her  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  as  the  long-due  reward  freely  and  fully  offered — that 
Winnie  Caerlyon  was  sorely  missed,  was  deeply  regretted, 
though  seven  years  of  absence  had  made  her  memory  like  a 
dream  of  the  dead  and  gone. 

“  What  ages  ago  it  seems  since  poor  little  Winnie  Caer¬ 
lyon  used  to  run  over  every  second  evening  to  read  to  me 


126 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


and  play  for  me — poor  little  thing!”  Madam  Vivian  re-v 
marked,  late  one  cold  dark  evening  in  February. 

She  was  sipping  the  favourite  green  tea  from  her  favourite 
cup  of  pale  buff  and  gold  evening  china,  and  with  jewelled 
fingers,  dimpled  more  deeply  but  less  whitely  fair  than  of 
yore,  daintily  crumbling — after  her  usual  fashion — the  mor¬ 
sels  of  cake;  she  sighed  as  she  spoke,  glancing  across  the 
table  at  her  vis-a-vis. 

“Trewhella  reads  to  you,  does  she  not,”  Madam?”  in¬ 
quired  the  vis-a-vis  carelessly. 

“  Trewhella!  ”  said  Madam,  with  a  shrug.  “Yes — some¬ 
times.  She  has  no  notion  of  modulation  or  expression,  poor 
woman!  A  dernier  ressort  when  my  eyes  ache,  I  assure  you, 
my  dear.  It  is  not  much  more  pleasure  to  me  to  listen  to  her 
reading  than  it  is  to  her  to  read.  A  woman  of  her  class,  at 
forty-five  years  of  age,  has  long  out-grown  the  time  when 
love-stories  and  romances  are  interesting;  still  she  fancies  it 
keeps  up  her  dignity.” 

“  Her  dignity!  ”  echoed  the  vis-a-vis ,  with  a  kind  of  leis¬ 
urely  scorn.  “  What  have  people  of  her  class  to  do  with 
dignity,  I  wonder?  You  pay  her  wages  to  make  herself  use¬ 
ful  and  agreeable  to  you,  just  as  you  used  to  pay  Winnie  Ca- 
erlyon  to  make  herself  useful  and  agreeable;  and  when  she 
ceased  to  do  so  you  dismissed  her,  I  believe.” 

“I  never  dismissed  her,”  said  Madam,  with  peevish  protest 
— “  that  is,  not  finally,  you  know.  I  meant  to  take  her  back 
— I  have  said  so  dozens  of  times.” 

“Oh,  yes — I  know,”  returned  Madam’s  vis-a-vis ,  the  leis¬ 
urely  scorn  glimmering  in  a  cold  smile;  “and,  whilst  you 
were  deliberating  about  the  possibility  of  forgiving  her 
heinous  offences,  she  fled  out  of  the  country.  The  little  fool, 
she  should  have  waited  until  you  thought  proper  to  remember 
her  existence!  ” 

“  She  should!  ”  cried  Madam,  sharply,  and  it  seemed  de¬ 
fiantly,  in  the  face  of  that  haughty  mocking^ smile.  “She 
should  have  been  more  grateful  and  docile — I  had  been  a 
good  friend  to  Winnie  for  three  years  before,  from  the  time 
her  father  came  to  Tolgooth.  She  should  not  have  treated 
me  so  unkindly.” 

There  was  a  flush  on  Madam’s  face  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes,  the  brightness  of  which  was  a  good  deal  dimmed; 
her  brow  grew  lined,  and  the  wrinkles  in  her  fine  skin  deep¬ 
ened;  and,  as  she  sank  back  ra*ther  heavily  in  her  cushioned 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING.  127 

chair,  it  could  be  seen  that  handsome  Madam  Vivian  was 
growing  an  old  woman  very  fast. 

“  I  never  intended  to  forget  or  forsake  her — I  meant  quite 
to  adopt  her  in  time,”  she  resumed,  complainingly.  a  I  always 
treated  her  like  a  lady,  and  required  my  servants  to  do  so 
too.  Winnie  treated  me  very  ill,  I  think.” 

“  Possibly,”  observed  the  other,  in  the  same  cool  measured 
way;  “  there  is  no  such  thing  as  gratitude  to  be  found,  you 
know.  I  don’t  see  why  you  should  trouble  yourself  to  re¬ 
member  a  young  person  who  was  so  forgetful  of  your  extra¬ 
ordinary  benefits.  She  was  designing,  and  forgetful  of  her 
humble  station,  too,  you  recollect.” 

“  I  don’t  recollect  anything  of  the  kind!  ”  Madam  retorted, 
the  cold  measured  voice,  the  barbed,  mocking,  polite  assur¬ 
ances  seeming  to  goad  her.  “  I  am  well  aware  that  there  is 
no  such  thing  as  gratitude  to  be  found — your  ladyship  has  no 
need  to  remind  me  of  it;  but  I  don’t  believe  poor  little  Win¬ 
nie  was  anything  worse  than  a  foolish,  simple-hearted  child; 
and,  if  I  had  advised  her  in  kindness  and  confidence,  I  be¬ 
lieve  there  would  have  been  an  end  of  it.  She  was  always  a 
truthful,  honourable  little  girl.” 

Madam  had  wiped  away  three  or  four  angry  tears  while 
she  spoke — seven  years  before  her  nerves  would  not  have 
been  so  easily  shaken.  But  neither  tears  nor  anger  seemed 
to  ruffle  the  composed  face  and  smile  and  voice  of  the  “  lady¬ 
ship  ”  she  addressed. 

“  But  there  was  another  person  in  the  case,  I  understood,” 
she  persisted,  smilingly,  lying  back  in  her  chair  to  face 
Madam  more  directly,  and  fanning  herself  slowly;  “and 
there  might  not  have  been  an  end  of  it  in  the  way  you 
would  have  wished,  Madam.  It  was  much  the  better  plan  to 
dismiss  her — send  her  packing,  as  housekeepers  say.  She  is 
safely  gone  now — never  to  return.” 

Madam’s  eyes  shot  a  quick  flash  of  indignation,  and  her 
lips  parted  ;  but  a  second  glance  at  the  calm,  haughty  face, 
the  mocking  smile  playing  about  the  downcast  eye-lids  and 
sharply-cut  lips,  the  indolent  repose  of  the  figure  and  the 
play  of  the  fan,  stopped  the  indignant  reproof  trembling  on 
her  lips.  She  turned  her  head  away,  and  gazed  unsteadily  at 
the  fire  for  a  few  moments  ;  then  she  half  turned  round  and 
addressed  her  companion  with  an  attempt  at  composure  and 
indifference  that  was  rather  a  failure. 

“Did  you  tell  me  that  you  had  heard  from  Lord  Henry 
this  morning?  ” 


128 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“Yes,”  the  lady  replied,  arching  her  eyebrows  slightly,  in 
a  tone  the  perfection  of  indifference;  “and,  as  you  have 
reminded  me  of  domestic  relations,  I  had  better  look  after 
Lord  Henry’s  heir — though  Jeanneton  decidedly  ignores  any 
claims  or  directions  of  mine  with  reference  to  her  spoiled 
pet.” 

There  was  a  subdued  gliding  rustle  as  the  heavy  silken 
folds  of  a  train  of  lustrous  dark  blue  swept  softly  over  the 
carpet,  and  the  tall,  imperially-moulded  figure  of  the  wearer 
passed  out  through  the  doorway,  and  Madam  was  left  alone. 

“Yes,  gone — gone,  never  to  return!”  she  muttered,  half 
aloud,  shaking  her  head;  and  the  brilliant  firelight  shone  on 
a  very  lined  and  sad  old  face. 

Despite  the  silvery  curls,  the  careful  head-dress,  the  silks 
and  laces  and  diamond  rings — yes,  even  the  dainty  kid, 
rosetted,  gold-buckled  shoes  as  of  yore — Madam  Vivian 
looked  an  old,  .weary,  sorrowful,  lonely  woman,  as  she  sat 
there  in  the  luxurious  green  drawing-room,  in  the  restless 
glow  and  blaze  of  the  firelight,  and  the  steady,  clear  lumin¬ 
ousness  of  her  favourite  wax-lights,  listening  to  the  steady 
roll  and  crash  of  the  waves  out  by  the  Black  Reef  of  Tre- 
garthen  Head,  as  she  had  done  these  many,  many  years  alone. 

“It  is  a  lonely  life,”  she  went  on,  the  weak  tears  rising  that 
she  scarcely  cared  to  wipe  away;  “neither  son,  nor  daughter, 
and  scarcely  a  friend — alone  in  my  old  age!  And  I  preferred 
her  to  Winnie — my  poor  little  Winnie,  she  would  have  been 
as  a  child  to  me— I  preferred  her  to  Winnie!  ” 


CHAPTER  XX. 

“  I  don’t  see  that  it’s  any  use  speaking  to  a  maid  like  you 
at  all!  Why,  ’e  never  thinks  of  a  thing  while  a  person’s 
crossing  the  floor  after  telling  of  you  !  ’Tis  quite  a  shame 
for  a  great  girl  of  your  age  to  be  going  about  her  work  like 
a  gaby  that  never  saw  a  bit  of  bread  properly  made  !  To 
leave  the  sponge  a-working  in  that  sort  of  w^ay  !  ” 

And  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  rolling  up  her  sleeves  in  vengeful 
haste,  commenced  making  up  the  neglected  dough  as  fast  as 
possible,  flouring  herself  considerably  in  the  process,  whilst 
the  neglectful  Sarah  Matilda  went  sulkily  about  some  other 
work. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


129 


“  Now,”  her  mother  began  afresh,  punctuating  her  words 
by  vigorous  kneadings,  “  this  is  no  less  than  four  batches  of 
bread  you’ve  been  and  spoilt,  since  I  was  fool  enough  to  let 
’e  meddle  with  it.  Four!  I  never  knew  your  sister  Winnie 
to  spoil — no,  not  as  much  as  a  pasty— never,  in  her  life!  She 
had  her  wits  about  her  when  she  went  to  work!  I  don’t 
know  what  ’e  mean  to  make  of  yourself  if  ’e  grow  up  like 
that!  ” 

“Ma!”  interrupted  Louie,  looking  up  from  a  praiseworthy 
attempt  at  darning  her  stockings. 

“Well,  child?” 

“  When  shall  we  hear  from  sister  Winnie  again,  ma?  It’s 
a  long  time,  ma,  isn’t  it?” 

“  Long  enough,”  returned  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  shortly,  but  de¬ 
termined  to  finish  Sarah  Matilda’s  “  nagging”  in  spite  of  the 
interruption.  “But  sister  Winnie  will  write  regularly,  never 
fear;  she  was  never  one  to  forget  her  business.  Every  bit 
of  it’ll  be  heavy — every  bit!  Serve  ’e  right,  Sarah,  if  you 
had  to  eat  it  all  yourself — kept  on  it  for  a  month!” 

“  Ma!” — the  interruption  came  from  another  youngster, 
who  was  amusing  himself  with  putting  bits  of  coal,  and  occa¬ 
sionally  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  between  the  bars  of  the 
kitchen  grate — “  Ma — I  say  ma — didn’t  sister  Winnie  promise 
me  something  in  her  next  letter?  Didn’t  she,  ma?” 

“Yes — she  did.  What  are  ’e  at,  driving  your  fingers  into 
the  fire  for,  Johnnie,  like  that?  I  never  saw  the  like.  Take 
your  hands  out  of  the  coals  this  minute,  and  go  wash  them 
— you  dirty,  dirty  boy!” 

“Now,”  said  Johnnie,  with  a  grimace  of  triumph  at  his 
younger  sister,  and  quite  unmoved  at  the  maternal  objurga¬ 
tion — “now,  Miss — sister  Winnie  did!  Now!  Ma  says  it 
too.” 


“Don’t  care,”  returned  Louie,  stoutly,  darning  away;  but 
Johnnie’s  triumph,  or  the  longing  desire  for  “  something  ” 
in  a  letter  for  herself,  or  the  fact  of  having  run  the  needle 
into  her  finger,  broke  down  her  resolution.  “Ma,”  she 
began  afresh  in  the  whimpering  tone  she  had  never  quite  got 
rid  of  from  babyhood— “  ma,  won’t  sister  Winnie  send  me 
something,  too?  I  wish'  sister  Winnie  would  come  back.” 

“Shell  never  come  back  any  more,”  said  Johnnie,  with  a 
nod  of  assurance.  “  Ma — she  won’t,  will  she,  ma?  Sister 
Winnie  won’t  come  back  ever  again,  ma,  will  she?” 

“  I  don’t  know — I  am  sure  1  wish  she  would,”  replied 
Mrs.  Caerlyon,  tartly,  for  Sarah  Matilda’s  benefit  again;  “  I 

9 


330  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

should  have  a  person  with  a  head  on  their  shoulders,  and  a 
pair  of  willing  hands  to  help  me,  if  she  did.  '  Bless  me! 
what  on  earth  are  ’e  all  trooping  in  for  like  that?”  This 
was  addressed  to  a  pell-mell  crowd  rushing  down  the  tiled ' 
passage  from  the  hall-door.  “Just  see  where  ’e  are  all 
going — and  the  tiles  just  ruddled — and  the - ” 

“  Ma,”  burst  from  the  foremost  of  the  throng,  who  nearly 
tumbled  into  the  dough-pan  in  his  headlong  career — “  ma, 
there’s  a  lady  coming  in!” 

“  A  lady  in  black,  ma,”  panted  another  sister — “  coming  in 
here.  She’s — she’s  there!”  The  words  were  uttered  in  a 
whisper  of  alarm,  for  right  behind  them,  in  the  little  tiled 
entry,  stood  the  figure  of  a  lady  veiled  and  dressed  in  fresh 
mourning. 

Mrs.  Caerlyon  rubbed  the  flour  off  her  hands,  dropped  her 
white  apron,  and,  nerving  herself  for  the  emergency  by  the 
recollection  that,  “  whoever  she  was,  she  had  no  business  to 
walk  in  like  that,  when  a  person  was  busy,”  came  forward. 

“’Tisn’t  Miss  Trewhella — I’d  like  to  see  the  saucy  old 
thing  put  her  foot  in  my  house!”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  thought  in 
dire  surprise  and  alarm  almost,  as,  after  a  moment’s  hesita¬ 
tion,  the  lady  in  black  rushed  forward,  meeting  her  before 
she  reached  the  kitchen  door,  and,  flinging  back  her  veil, 
stretched  forth  both  her  arms. 

“Mamma,  I’ve  come  back,”  she  cried — “I’ve  come  back, 
dear  mamma,  to  you  and  poor  dear  father,  and  the  children, 
and - ” 

“Winnie!  Winnie!”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  screamed,  after  a  stare 
of  blank  surprise.  “Winnie,  darling,  I’m  glad  to  see  ’e! 
Glad — gl — ad,  Winnie!”  and  forthwith  Mrs.  Caerlyon 
clutched  her  step-daughter  in  her  arms,  kissing  her  loudly, 
and  crying  vociferously,  as  is  the  manner  of  high-tempered, 
sharp-featured  women  when  excited. 

“  Sister  Winnie” — the  myth — who  lived  in  the  little  pink 
coloured  country  in  North  America — “  sister  Winnie,”  this 
lady  in  black!  Was  the  world  coming  to  an  end? 

The  children  almost  thought  so,  and,  after  huddling 
together  for  a  moment,  the  younger  ones  joined  in  their 
mother’s  hysterical  crying,  until  Winnie — fair,  graceful  sister 
Winnie,  with  the  lovely  golden-brown  hair  all  in  a  mass  of 
little  glittering  curls  over  her  forehead,  beneath  her  black 
crape  bonnet — turned  to  them  also  with  open  arms,  kissing 
them  and  crying  over  them  in  turn. 

One  of  the  Coastguard  happened  to  pass  at  the  moment, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING, 


131 

and  with  grave  alarm  he  told  his  officer,  five  minutes  after¬ 
wards,  that  there  was  a  strange  lady  all  in  black  gone  into 
his — the  officer’s — house,  and  “  he  hoped  as  she  had  brought 
no  bad  news  to  the  missus,  for  he  thought  as  he  had  heard 
the  children  all  a-crying.” 

Poor  Lieutenant  Caerlyon  ran  in  panting,  uncovering  his 
gray  head  respectfully  as  he  entered  the  strange  lady’s  pres¬ 
ence,  and  remembered  nothing  more,  when  she  turned  round, 
than  a  confused  scene  and  much  talking  and  laughing  and 
crying,  and  questioning  and  answering,  for  the  next  hour, 
until  poor  Sarah  Matilda,  eager  to  redeem  her  character 
before  the  eyes  of  the  perfect  sister,  got  tea  ready,  and  some 
small  loaves  nicely  baked,  and  eggs  boiled,  and  a  bit  of  ham 
fried,  and  the  lump  sugar  and  sweet-cake  put  on  the  table — 
all  which  constituted  the  fatted  calf  that  the  poor  Caerlyons 
had  to  offer  to  the  returned  wanderer — and  they  were  all 
seated  at  the  tea-table,  Winnie  next  her  father,  and  the  tears 
and  excitement  blinding  and  confusing  her  so  that  she  did 
not  know  whether  she  was  eating  or  not. 

Poor  Lieutenant  Caerlyon  had  been  crying  plentifully  him¬ 
self,  but  now  he  rubbed  his  eyes  determinedly  dry,  and  gazed 
at  his  long-absent  daughter  proudly. 

“Elizabeth,  hasn’t  she  grown  a — a  nice  little  woman?”  he 
asked,  longing  to  say  more,  but  withheld  as  he  had  ever  been, 
from  giving  his  child  her  meed  of  praise. 

“  She  has  grown  downright  elegant  and  pretty,”  said  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  with  one  of  her  short  laughs;  “I’d  never  have 
known  her,  I  think,  only  she  came  into  the  kitchen.  She’s 
nicer-looking  to  my  mind  than  Lady  Mountrevor — grand  as 
she  is.” 

Winnie  blushed  deeply — one  of  her  own  old  vivid  rose-red 
blushes. 

“  Oh,  mamma!  ” 

“  Elizabeth,  my  dear,”  said  Lieutenant  Caerlyon,  laughing, 
“  that’s  too  far.  Lady  Mountrevor,  Elizabeth!  ”  But  in  his 
secret  heart  he  had  never  felt  so  great  a  glow  of  gratitude  to 
his  wife  as  he  felt  at  that  instant. 

“ Is  Lady  Mountrevor  here  now?”  Winnie  asked,  looking 
up  with  a  quick,  keen  interest  darkening  her  brilliant  gray 
eyes. 

“Yes,  she  is,”  answered  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  slightingly,  and 
she  further  proceeded  to  state,  in  the  decisive  off-hand  way 
that  people  assume  when  they  wish  to  convince  others  of 
their  democratic  indifference  to  wealth  and  rank,  and  beauty 


132  all  in  the  wild  march  morning. 


and  fasnion,  that  for  her  part  she  saw  nothing  particular  in 
this  grand  Lady  Mountrevor  that  people  made  such  a  “  to-do” 
about,  as  if  she  were  a  queen^—  a  tall,  stout,  showy  woman, 
dressed  like  a  doll  in  a  window,  with  her  white  muslin 
dresses  and  lilac  ribbons,  walking  along  the  dusty  roads  in 
summer,  with  a  French  nurse  for  her  child — her  “bone”  she 
believed  they  called  her.  “And  why  she  isn’t  at  home  with 
her  husband,  instead  of  wandering  about  the  country,  no  one 
can  make  out,”  concluded  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with  a  sapient  nod. 
“Not 'much  love  lost  between  them,  sure  enough.” 

“Ah,  I  hope  such  is  not  the  case,”  said  Winnie,  earnestly; 
and,  in  order  to  change  the  subject — she  knew  to  what 
lengths  “  making  out  ”  cases  was  carried  by  the  maids  and 
matrons  of  Tolgooth  and  its  vicinity  in  the  old  days — she 
asked,  “  Do  you  ever  see  Madam  Vivian,  mamma?” 

“  Yes,  at  church,  sometimes,”  replied  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with 
a  fresh  accession  of  the  slighting  tone;  “and  she’s  getting  a 
real  old  woman,  too,  for  all  her  grand  bonnets  and  ribbons, 
and  furs  and  things.  I  saw  her  last  Sunday,  and  she  asked 
when  we  had  heard  last  from  you.  She’s  as  proud  and  stiff  as 
ever,  poor  old  lady — shut  up  there  in  Rose  worthy  for  half 
the  year,  without  a  soul  to  talk  to  but  that  tawny-faced  old 
maid,  Trewhella.” 

“  Oh,  Trewhella’s  not  married  yet,  then?”  remarked  Win¬ 
nie,  laughing. 

“Indeed  she’s  not,  nor  never  will  be,”  returned  the  step¬ 
mother,  “  for  all  her  dressed-up  impudence.  Coming  here 
in  her  blue  silks  and  gold  chains,  and  running  there,  about 
the  mines,  after  my  cousin  Thomas,  no  less!  I  wondered  a 
good  many  times  why  she  seemed  to  have  a  spite  against  ’e, 
Winnie,  long  ago;  and  that  was  one  reason  I’ll  lay  any 
wrager.” 

“She  needed  not,”  said  Winnie,  in  a  lower  tone,  a  slight 
troubled  flush  rising  over  her  face.  Thronging  memories 
quickened  the  beating  of  her  heart,  and  her  lips  trembled  a 
little  as  she  said,  with  an  assumed  air  of  gaiety,  “  It  was  Su¬ 
sanna  Edwards  who  should  have  been  the  object  of  her  jeal¬ 
ousy,  if  any  one  was.  She  was  Mr.  Pascoe’s  sweetheart  ten 
years  ago,  and  is  his  wife  now.  I  think  the  real  cause  of  her 
dislike  was  jealousy  of  her  mistress’s  favour.  She  needed 
not  to  have  troubled  herself  about  that  either — poor  Tre¬ 
whella!  ” 

“  No,  indeed,”  put  in  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  with  a  sniff;  “  we  don’t 
want  Madam  Vivian’s,  or  Madam  Anybody’s  favor,  thank 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  133 

goodness  !  We  can  pay  our  way  honest,  and  look  to  nobody 
for  help  or  credit!  ” 

“No  one — no,  indeed,”  assented  Lieutenant  Caerlyon, 
doubtfully,  looking  from  his  wife’s  to  his  daughter’s  face,  and 
shifting  restlessly  in  his  seat;  “  we — we’ve  helped  each  other 
along,  thank  Heaven!” 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  intercepting  the  glance,  and 
no  squeamish  delicacy  restraining  her  from  interpreting  it 
fully — Mrs.  Caerlyon  “  always  spoke  her  mind  out  ”  on  all 
subjects — “if  ’e  all,  as  ’e  grow  up,  and  be  able  to  fill  useful 
situations  ” — with  an  obliquity  of  tone  directing  the  general 
address  into  a  particular  one  for  Sarah  Matilda’s  ear — “  are 
as  good  at  remembering  your  father  and  mother  as  your 
sister  Winnie  here,  ’e’ll  all  do  well,  and  prosper,  and  live 
long  in  the  land,”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  concluded,  with  a  sudden 
grasp  at  a  quotation  of  the  fifth  commandment. 

The  quick  shy  colour  burned  in  Winnie’s  pure  delicate 
face  at  this  praise  of  her  step-mother’s — it  was  so  grateful, 
so  strange,  to  her  ears,  poor  girl!  And  the  flush  grew  deeper 
under  the  embarrassing  weight  of  the  communication  she  had 
to  make. 

“ I  have  done  only  what  it  was  my  duty  to  do,”  she  said, 
looking  down  nervously  and  fingering  her  teaspoon;  “  I  don’t 
deserve  any  thanks  for  that*  mamma.*  Whatever  I  sent  you 
I  could  well  spare — poor  dear  aunt  Sarah  was  so  good  to  me.” 

The  grim  eccentric  old  woman’s  generous  kindness  and 
indulgence  had  indeed  won  for  her,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  the  grateful  love  and  trust  of  a  fresh  fond  young  heart; 
and  surely,  in  all  her  years  of  shrewd  astuteness,  she  had 
never  bargained  so  wisely  and  well  as  when  she  thus  pur¬ 
chased  that  fond  filial  care  for  the  evening  of  her  life,  and 
the  loving  remembrance  of  her  after  death,  which  stirred  the 
true  heart  beneath  the  fresh  mourning  dress  of  Winnie 
Caerlyon. 

“I  did  all  I  could,  of  course,  as  was  my  duty,”  resumed 
Winnie,  speaking  rather  tremblingly,  for  fear  she  might  seem 
proud  or  arrogant — poor  frail  pale-faced  little  woman! — “but 
I  shall  be  able  to  do  much  more  for  the  future,  dear  father — - 
a  great  deal  more,  mamma.”  Winnie  was  shedding  tears  of 
genuine  pleasure  and  satisfaction.  “  Aunt  Saral#  left — left 
me  all — all  her  money!  ”  sobbed  Winnie,  quite  breaking 
down.  “Hannah,  her  servant,  had  the  house  and  furniture, 
and  a  hundred  dollars  a  year  for  her  life;  and  I’ve — I’ve  a 
thou — thousand  dollars  a  year!  That’s  about  two  hundred 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


134 

pounds,  you  know,  dear,”  she  said,  appealing  to  Sarah  Matilda, 
who  had  grown  pale  with  surprise  and  delight. 

Vistas  of  hats  with  white  feathers,  and  kid  gloves,  and 
long  gossamer  veils,  like  Lady  Mountrevor’s,  began  to  be 
conjured  up  in  Sarah  Matilda’s  girlish,  vain  young  head, 
whilst  her  sister  spoke. 

“My  goodness  gracious!”  ejaculated  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  her 
face  quite  in  a  blaze  of  flushed  colour  and  excitement  and 
gratification,  her  housewifely  soul  moved  at  the  possibilities 
of  a  new  carpet,  and  parlour  chairs  in  blue  damask,  like  her 
cousin  Bella’s,  to  be  obtained  from  her  step-daughter’s  lavish 
generosity.  “  Oh,  my  goodness,  Winnie  child,  that  will  be 
splendid!  Two  hundred  a  year!  Not  but  what  we  wanted 
it  badly,”  she  added,  beginning  to  cry  over  past  privations 
and  coming  luxuries,  and  laying  claim  to  Winnie’s  legacy 
with  an  egotism  of  which  she  was  hardly  conscious. 

But  poor  Lieutenant  Caerlyon  for  once  put  aside  his  help¬ 
mate  and  her  seven  children,  and  all  the  carking  cares  that 
had  dragged  him  down  to  the  level  of  sordid  poverty,  and, 
recalling  himself  as  he  was  when  he  married  Winifred’s 
young  mother,  proud,  high-spirited,  gallant,  and  generous, 
spoke  as  a  father  and  a  gentleman  to  his  neglected  daughter. 

“  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear,”  he  said,  putting  a  tremb¬ 
ling  hand  on  her  shoulder — “very  glad  that  your  aunt  Sarah 
made  you  such  a  suitable  return  for  your  years  of  care  and 
attendance  on  her.  You  deserve  it  well,  Winnie,  and — 
and”- — he  faltered,  becoming  very  conscious  of  the  keen 
hard  brown  eyes  watching  him — “  I’ve  no  doubt  but  that,  as 
you  so  kindly  remembered  your  poor  little  brothers  and  sis¬ 
ters  when  you  bad  not  much  to  spare  from  your  own  wants, 
you  will  remember  them  still — I  am  sure  of  that,  Winnie — 
you  never  were  unkind  or  neglectful  to  them.  But  your 
money’s  your  own,  my  dear,  and  you  must  not  spend  it  all 
on  others;  you  must  take  care  of  it.  You’ll  have  a  house  of 
your  own,  and  children  of  your  own,  some  day,  please 
Heaven,  and  you’ll  want  all  you  have  then.” 

“No,  father,  I  sha’n’t,”  opposed  Winnie,  crying  and 
laughing  together.  And  one  of  the  “  little  brothers  ”  anx¬ 
iously  inquired  of  Johnnie  if  “  sister  Winnie  ”  had  a  lot  of 
little  children  away  over  in  North  America.  “  When  you 
don’t  want  me  any  longer,  I  can  take  my  money  and  myself 
away,  but,  until  then — why,  father  dear,  I’d  never  spend  the 
half  of  it!”  Winnie  said,  quite  decisively.  “How  could  I? 
Unless  I  were  to  dress  myself  like  Lady  Mountrevor,  and 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 


135 


sail  about  the  dusty  roads  in  white  muslin  and  lilac  ribbons! 
I  will  take  another  cup  of  tea,  mamma,  please.  What 
lovely  long  fair  hair  Louie  has!  My  darling  child!  She 
always  had  beautiful  silky  hair!”  And  for  the  rest  of  the 
tea-time  Winnie  chatted  incessantly,  in  dread  of  her  father’s 
talking  so  about  “  her  money”  again! — as  if  it  were  likely 
that  she  would  put  all  that  money  away  in  the  bank  for  her 
own  benefit,  and  see  those  poor  darlings  want  for  anything! 

But  after  tea,  when  the  railway  carrier  brought  over  Win¬ 
nie’s  heavy  luggage  in  a  van,  and  one  of  her  trunks  was 
opened  in  the  parlour,  the  previous  brightness  of  this  won¬ 
derful  evening  redoubled  to-amazing  intensity  for  tlie^  young 
Caerlyons.  Wonderful  “  sister  Winnie  ” — that  is  to  say,  this 
elegant  young  lady  in  black,  with  her  American-fashioned 
hair  and  dress,  who  they  were  told  was  the  realization  of  the 
mythical  sister — she  had  forgotten  nobody,  and  “  everybody” 
had  more  beautiful  things  than  66  everybody  else  ”  for  presents. 

At  the  very  top  of  the  trunk  was  a  silk  umbrella — such  a 
superb  rain-shade  was  never  seen — in  double  brown  silk,  and 
with  ivory  handle  and  silver  name-plate. 

“I  know,  father,  you  always  had  a  fancy  for  smart  umbrel¬ 
las,”  said  Winnie;  “  and  I  brought  you  that  from  New  York.” 

Then  there  was  a  black  velvet  jacket — “  the  height  of  the 
Paris  fashion,”  very  rich,  but  simply  trimmed. 

“  Mamma,  I  know  that’s  a  fancy  of  yours,”  she  remarked, 
smiling;  “I  wasn’t  very  sure  of  anything  else,  but  I  knewr 
you  used  to  like  black  velvets  so  much. 

“  My  dear,  you  are  very  kind,”  said  Elizabeth  Caerlyon, 
touched  and  surprised  out  of  all  volubility,  more  at  the  faith¬ 
ful  memory  that  had  remembered  her  likings  and  fancies  all 
these  years  than  anything  else. 

“I  did  not  know  what  to  bring  Sarah  Matilda,”  began 
Winnie  again,  and  then  pausing  for  a  few  moments,  while  that 
young  lady’ s  heart  grew  colder  and  heavier,  “  but  I  imagined, 
if  you  would  not  think  her  too  young  to  wear  it,  mamma — 
several  very  young  girls  in  Winston  got  them  this  fall — that 
a  nice  cinnamon-coloured  silk,  with  a  new  kind  of  fluted 
trimming  in  two  shades,  would  become  her  very  well.” 

“  A  silk  dress — for  me!”  faintly  ejaculated  Sarah  Matilda. 

“  Yes^  dear — there  it  is,”  said  Winnie;  and,  peering  rever¬ 
ently  between  the  folds  of  silk-paper,  and  occasionally  feel¬ 
ing,  with  quivering  fingers,  the  smoothness,  and  richness  of 
the  rustling  fabric,  Sarah  Matilda  passed  the  rest  of  the 
evening  in  a  glorified  dream. 


136 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MOKNING. 


Other  treasures — unrolled  from  silk-paper,  cotton  wad- 
ding,  and  pasteboard  boxes — emerged  from  out  that  wonder¬ 
ful  trunk,  the  capacity  of  which  seemed  to  be  enormous. 
That  evening  blotted  out  half  the  annals  of  a  lifetime  with 
the  children,  in  its  succession  of  wonders  and  delights;  they 
all  stared  themselves  blind  and  talked  themselves  hoarse,  and 
having — after  protracted  delays  to  an  abnormally  late  hour — 
gone  to  bed  at  length,  everybody  stayed  awake  until  morning, 
and  so  spent  next  day  both  actually  and  figuratively  in 
dreamland. 

The  house  was  full  of  delightful  things — there  had  not 
been  such  a  dinner  since  Christmas  Day  as  was  cooking  in 
the  kitchen — roast  beef,  Yorkshire  pudding,  and  a  splendid 
rice  and  custard  pudding  full  of  raisins!  Well  might  John¬ 
nie  warn  Tommy  on  no  account  to  be  seduced  into  antepran¬ 
dial  repasts  on  hunks  of  cold  pasty  or  bread  and  cheese,  but 
“  leave  plenty  of  room”  for  the  beef  and  pudding!  And 
there  were  curious  delicate  odours  floating  about — odours  of 
cedar-trunks,  of  perfume-sachets,  of  dried  and  ripe  American 
apples,  and  millinery  goods! 

As  for  the  new  carpet  and  chairs,  Winnie  had  arranged  for 
them,  as  well  as  a  new  drawing-room,  or  rather  new  house,  to 
go  with  them — a  nice  rented  house  of  their  own,  where  the 
Caerlyons  would  not  be  “  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,”  a 
family  of  eleven  persons  in  a  six-roomed  house — the  one 
perched  above  Tolgooth  Bay,  provided  by  Government  for 
their  accommodation. 

Every  room  was  strewn  with  new,  curious,  pretty,  and 
eatable  things — pictures,  books,  old  china,  dresses,  jars 
of  jelly,  bottles  of  syrup,  toys,  packing  cases;  and  everybody 
was  examining  everything,  praising,  wondering,  discussing, 
questioning  to  their  heart’s  content;  while  Winnie — her  neat 
black  dress  covered  up  with  a  large  white  apron  and  bib, 
such  as  she  used  to  wear  long  ago — was  running  about, 
arranging,  unpacking,  tidying,  cooking,  talking  and  laughing, 
all  the  seven  children  following  her  from  room  to  room,  up 
and  down  stairs,  to  look  at  her  and  listen  to  her  with  breath¬ 
less  interest. 

“  I  never  saw  any  one  wear  their  age  better  than  ’e  do, 
Winnie,”  her  step-mother  remarked,  with,  her  usual  blunt 
straightforwardness;  “  really,  to  look  at  ’e,  one  would  never 
take  ’e  for  more  than  one-and-twenty.” 

Winnie  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  trunk  which  Sarah 
Matilda  was  unpacking,  and  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  seated  at  a  little 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING, 


137 


distance,  was  attentively  studying  Winnie’s  small  delicate 
face,  flushed  so  brightly,  her  smiling  eyes  and  lips,  and  her 
beautiful  carefully-arranged  hair. 

“  Instead  of  going  on  for  eight-and-twenty,  mamma,”  sup¬ 
plemented  Winnie;  and  for  a  moment  the  brightness  faded 
from  her  face. 

“Well,  what  if  you  are?”  Mrs.  Caerlyon  began,  when 
Sarah  Matilda,  delightedly  investigating  every  corner  and 
parcel  in  the  large  travelling  trunk,  held  up  a  large  square 
cedar  box. 

“  What’s  in  this,  sister?” 

“That?  Oh,  nothing!  At  least” - Winnie  stooped 

down  as  if  to  examine  the  box,  but  Sarah  Matilda  noticed 
how  very  red  “  sister  Winnie  ”  had  grown — “  it’s  nothing  but 
a — a  jacket.” 

“A  jacket!  Oh,  do  let’s  see!”  Sarah  Matilda  said,  pulling 
eagerly  at  the  twine.  “Yours,  sister?  Where  did  you  buy 
it?  What  kind  is  it?” 

“It’s  only  a  very  old  one,  dear,”  answered  Winnie;  and 
Sarah  Matilda  noticed  how  the  red  flush  had  totally  disap¬ 
peared.  “  Some  other  time  we’ll  look  at  it — it’s  not  worth 
opening  now;  I’ve  had  it  for  years.” 

“  What  did  ’e  do  with  the  splendid  sealskin  jacket,  Win¬ 
nie,”  asked  her  step-mother — “  the  one  Captain  Tredennick 
gave  ’e  before  ’e  went  away?” 

Winnie  hesitated  a  moment,  and  the  colour  dyed  all  her 
face  in  a  burning  blush  that  she  strove  to  hide. 

“Why — that  is  it!”  she  said,  with  a  short,  nervous  laugh, 
pointing  to  the  cedar  box.  “  It  is  as  good  as  ever,  and  it  has 
kept  me  warm  for  seven  long  winters.  It  was  a  beautiful 
one;  certainly.” 

“  ’E  took  good  care  of  it,  at  all  events,”  observed  Mrs. 
Caerlyon,  with  a  dry  insinuating  smile,  looking  at  the  soft, 
uncrushed  fur  and  satin  linings.  And  then  she  sat  a  long 
time  in  silence,  covertly  studying  her  step-daughter’s  win¬ 
some  gentle  face  and  light  figure,  and  troubling  her  poor, 
manoeuvring  brains  with  numberless  hastily  sketched  out 
plans. 

'  “  It  won’t  do  to  say  a  word — she  was  always  such  a  queer 
maid,”  she  said  to  herself.  But  “  one  word  ”  Mrs.  Caerlyon 
felt  that  she  must  say,  prompted  as  she  was  by  the  sight  of 
Stephen  Tredennick’s  long-ago  gift,  and  those  hastily-sketched 

mental  plans.  “It  might  be — who  could  tell?  —  stranger 


138 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


things  had  happened,”  she  thought,  showing  by  words  aloud 
whither  the  secret  current  of  her  meditations  had  gone. 

“Did  ’e  know,  Winnie,  that  the  East  Indiaman  Ohittoor. 
is  expected  home  the  third  week  in  March?  ” 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

“  I  think  I  never  remember  so  bleak  and  wild  a  spring,” 
Madam  Vivian  observed,  with  a  shiver;  “each  day  seems 
drearier  and  colder  and  stormier  than  the  one  preceding.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  walk  in  the  grounds  these  three  weeks; 
and  how  you  can  go  in  and  out  in  all  weathers  as  you  do 
passes  my  comprehension.” 

“It  has  been  remarked  before  now,  I  think,”  said  the  lady 
addressed,  “  that  6  where  there’s  a  will  there’s  generally  a 
way’ ;  it  is  tolerably  true,  I  fancy — that  is,  as  true  as  most  of 
those  absurd  things  which  people  repeat  with  such  an  air  of 
wisdom.”  She  was  embroidering  a  dainty  piece  of  work  of 
rich-hued  velvet  with  some  glittering  gold  fringe,  and  paused 
to  admire  the  effect. 

“  It  is  not  all  true  and  applicable  to  me,”  returned  Madam, 
peevishly;  “  I  have  the  will,  but  I  certainly  have  not  the 
way — unless  I  wish  to  catch  my  death  of  cold  with  salt  spray 
and  north-west  wind.”  She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  drawing 
a  crimson  Indian  shawl  around  her  with  another  shiver. 
“You  wrap  up  in  those  extraordinary  mackintosh  things,  and 
felt  hats  and  boot-tops — such  an  eccentric  costume  for  a  young 
lady! — and  so,  I  dare  say,  hail,  rain,  and  snow  are  alike  to 
you;  but  my  different  species  of  outdoor  attire  prevents  me 
from  attempting  such  feats  of  exercise.” 

“Yes,  your  style  of  costume  prevents  you,”  the  younger 
lady  assented,  with  a  grave,  scrutinizing  glance  at  the  snowy 
hair,  the  slightly-bowed  figure,  the  soft  languid  hands  buried 
in  the  warm  crimson  folds  of  the  shawl.  “  When  the 
weather  gets  fine,  you  must  come  up  to  Tregarthen  and  see 
my  improvements.” 

Madam  Vivian  shivered  again — affectedly  this  time. 

“  Thank  you,  my  dear — I  can  hardly  fancy  that  wretched 
old  ruin  an  inviting  place  to  explore  in  such  weather  as  this. 
Listen!”  She  pointed  one  finger  at  the  curtained  window, 
and  shrugged  her  shoulders,  as  old  people  do  to  convince 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  139 

young  people  of  their  ignorance  and  simplicity  on  most  dis¬ 
cussed  subjects. 

“  Yes,  it  rains  a  little,”  the  younger  lady  said,  imperturba¬ 
bly;  “  but  it  will  not  rain  for  three  weeks,  I  trust.  Tregar- 
then  will  be  ready  for  its  master  then.” 

“  Really,”  exclaimed  Madam,  beginning  to  turn  the  dia¬ 
mond  rings  on  her  dimpled  fingers,  and  smiling  a  little 
dubiously;  “I  fancied  that  the  house  was  a  hopeless  ruin, 
and  that  it  would  require  at  least  half  a  year’s  rebuilding 
and  renovating.” 

“  Perhaps  in  your  opinion  it  would,  Madam,”  her  compan¬ 
ion  rejoined,  coolly  and  indifferently  as  before.  “I  think  it 
is  safely  habitable  now,  at  least.” 

“  Oh,  I  dare  say  you  have  worked  wonders,  my  dear,”  said 
Madam,  graciously,  and  smiling  still;  “but  it  is  of  no  use 
hoping  to  make  that  most  restless  person,  Captain  Tredennick, 
settle  down  in  the  home  of  his  fathers,  as  he  should  have 
done  long  ago — ah,  twenty  years  ago,”  went  on  Madam  Viv¬ 
ian,  more  peevishly  than  she  had  yet  spoken — “  twenty  years 
ago,  instead  of  going  into  the  Navy — the  Merchant  Navy, 
too — the  first  of  his  name  who  ever  did  so!  He  should  have 
looked  after  his  property,  married  some  suitable  girl  with 
money  and  of  good  birth,  and  had  a  name  and  a  place  in  the 
county,  instead  of  being  more  like  a  waif  or  a  stray  than 
anything  else.” 

The  old  discord,  freshly  touched,  jarred  yet  as  it  had 
jarred  these  many  years. 

“  Perhaps  that  most  restless  person,  Captain  Tredennick, 
enjoys  life,”  the  lady  suggested,  coldly.  “  Be  he  a  waif  or 
stray,  or  whatever  else  the  puissant  potentates  of  the  Cornish 
aristocracy  choose  to  call  him,  he  is  to  be  envied  in  that 
case.” 

“  I  don’t  believe  he  enjoys  it  one  bit  more  than  men  who 
marry  and  settle  down  properly,”  retorted  Madam  Vivian, 
sharply.  “  People  are  never  one  whit  happier,  for  being 
allowed  to  follow  their  own  unconventional  ideas  and  whim¬ 
sical  fancies  unopposed  and  untrammeled.  I  thought  Stephen 
looked  exceedingly  old  and  weatherbeaten,  quite  a  staid, 
solid,  elderly  man,  with  frizzled  hair,  when  he  was  here  last 
—old  enough  for  fifty  instead  of  forty.” 

“And  I,”  said  the  younger  lady,  a  pleasant  affectionate 
smile  lighting  up  her  cold,  proud,  unfathomable  eyes, 
“  thought  he  looked  just  as  kind  and  pleasant  and  generous 
as  ever.” 


140 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  I  do  not  gainsay  my  nephew’s  excellent  qualities  of  head 
and  heart  in  the  least,  I  assure  you,”  explained  Madam, 
stiffly;  “I  regretted  his  prematurely-aged  appearance,  and 
his  lack  of  all  near  home  ties.  It  grieves  me  to  think  that  I 
shall  never  see  Stephen  Tredennjck’s  children.” 

“How  can  you  tell,  Madam,”  questioned  her  companion, 
with  a  quizzical  smile.  “  Stephen  Tredennick  may  be  bring¬ 
ing  a  wife  home  in  the  Chittoor  at  this  moment.” 

“Some  one  to  make  him  miserable,  then,  if  he  is,”  said 
Madam,  sardonically.  “  Men  of  his  age  are  always  taken  in 
by  the  first  designing  girls  that  get  a  chance  of  bewitching 
them.  I  have  often,  told  him  that  I  expected  to  see  some 
pallid,  lazy  young  Anglo-Indian  or  brown-skinned  Hindoo 
brought  home  to  me  as  Mrs.  Stephen  Tredennick.” 

“C’est  possible!”  assented  the  younger  lady,  laughing. 
“  Stej)hen  Tredennick  always  had  peculiar  tastes  about  fem¬ 
inine  charms;  still,  it  would  supply  the  dismal  vacancy  in 
Tregarthen  House,  Madam,  if  the  yellow  young  Anglo-In¬ 
dian,  or  the  swarthy  Hindoo  maid  were  installed  there  as 
mistress.” 

Madam  Vivian’s  chiseled  lips  tightened  after  the  old 
haughty  fashion. 

“  I  should  not  consider  the  vacancy  of  the  mistress  of  Tre- 
garthen’s  place  filled  if  Stephen  Tredennick  were  unhappy 
enough  to  be  deluded  into  a  low  marriage,”  she  said,  icily; 
“  and,  so  far  from  having  a  niece  to  acknowledge,  I  should 
from  that  time  cease  to  have  a  nephew!  ” 

The  proud  old  lady  stifled  the  pang  in  her  heart  which  her 
own  words  had  occasioned,  and  sat  composedly  turning  her 
rings,  and  warming  her  daintily-slippered  feet,  as  if  she  did 
not  know  that  the  loss  of  him  who  had  been  for  more  than 
thirty  years  as  a  son  to  her  would  send  her  gray  hairs  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave. 

“  Poor  Stephen,”  commiserated  the  younger  lady,  mock¬ 
ingly,  “  he  had  better  not  meddle  with  matrimony  then,  as 
he  is  sure  to  do  something  as  odd  and  unconventional  as  most 
of  his  simple,  chivalrous,  kindly  deeds — poor  old  fellow!  ” 

“  I  am  sure  my  nephew  will  never  marry  any  one  whom  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  own,”  said  Madam,  hotly. 

“And  I  am  equally  sure  of  the  same  thing,”  returned  the 
other  lady,  composedly. 

Madam  was  silent.  She  was  getting  the  worst  of  the  dis¬ 
cussion — she  always  did  with  this  opponent — and  sat  for  a 
long  time  buried  in  her  downy  chair  and  her  crimson  shawl, 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING 


141 

gazing  dreamily  and  sadly  at  the  bright  fire.  Playing  with 
diamond  rings,  and  toasting  gold-buckled  shoes,  however 
easy  and  interesting  an  employment,  is  apt  to  pall  and  be¬ 
come  wearisome.  Many  other  employments,  occupations, 
and  interests  had  palled  and  become  wearisome  to  Madam 
Vivian  of  late  years.  Handsome,  proud,  and  stately  as  she 
was,  she  was  an  old  woman,  and  growing  a  feeble  and  help¬ 
less  one.  A  lifetime  spent  in  the  society  of  downy  chairs, 
Indian  shawls,  and  diamond  rings,  oddly  enough,  is  not 
always  conducive  to  lengthened  years  of  strength  and  activity. 
Madam’s  time  had  begun  to  hang  heavily  on  her  hands,  and 
the  shadow  of  the  vampire-wings  of  ennui  to  darken  the  at¬ 
mosphere  of  the  green  drawing-room,  in  spite  of  tinted  wax- 
lights  and  the  blazing  warmth  of  radiant  fires. 

.Was  it  a  premonition,  in  this  silent  evening  hour,  which 
brought  her  lonely  life,  advancing  age,  lack  of  relatives  and 
devoted  friends,  sadly  to  her  mind,  making  her  delicate  hands 
tremble  nervously,  and  reminding  her  of  ebbing  strength  and 
vigour — making  her  feel,  as  she  had  often  felt  of  late,  but 
more  keenly  to-night  than  ever,  that  she  was  but  an  old,  wid¬ 
owed,  childless  woman,  and  that  she  would  gladly  barter  all 
the  triumphs  of  her  youthful  belle-ship,  her  middle-aged  fas¬ 
cination  and  cleverness,  her  position,  her  pride,  hgr  name,  to 
possess  one  real  heart-satisfying  affection — all  her  own — to 
cherish  and  take  pride  in  as  other  women  did — a  child,  a 
grandchild  even?  Poor  Madam  Vivian! 

Drearier  and  drearier  grew  the  old  lady’s  sad  thoughts, 
whilst  that  cold,  stately,  handsome  companion  of  hers  sat  aloof , 
guiding  the  gleaming  gold  fringe  over  her  white  fingers — 
not  from  heartlessness,  in  spite  of  those  marble-like,  unmoved 
features,  cold  clear  eyes,  and  firmly-moulded  lips,  but  from 
the  hopeless  indifference  to  any  attempt  at  being  understood 
in  ideas,  tastes,  or  feelings — the  hopeless  indifference  to  ipost 
persons  and  things — the  hopeless  indifference  to  the  fatigu¬ 
ing  and  unsatisfactory  effort  to  be  loving  and  beloved,  which 
possessed  the  handsome  peeress,  Lady  Mountrevor,  at  six-and- 
twenty  years  of  age. 

And  so  the  evening  passed  on,  as  many  an  evening  had 
passed  between  those  two,  in  lonely  luxury,  irksome  compan¬ 
ionship,  unsocial  relationship;  and  Madam  Vivian,  stretching 
out  her  hand  to  touch  the  bell-spring  beyond  her  chair,  felt 
with  a  weary  sigh  that  she  would  gladly  have  welcomed  any 
one  or  any  event  that  might  break  the  monotonous  flow  of 
the  current  of  existence. 


142 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING: 


But  the  bell  brought  only  old  Llanyon  the  butler,  his  snowy 
hair  whiter  than  his  mistress’s;  and  the  only  event  likely  to 
occur  until  bed-time  for  Madam  Vivian  was  the  arrival  on  a 
silver  tray  of  a  certain  cordial  drink  which  the  butler  was 
summoned  to  prepare. 

Madam  Vivian  scarcely  ever*  paid  much  heed  to  her  serv¬ 
ants’  countenances  when  addressing  them;  now  she  scarcely 
looked  up  from  her  languid  toying  with  her  rings,  or  she 
might  have  noticed  that  the  old  man’s  usually  stolid  face 
was  excited  and  bright,  and  that  he  rubbed  his  hands  quickly 
and  mechanically  together  whilst  he  waited. 

“You  will  be  sure  to  remember  the  pine-apple  essence, 
Llanyon,”  Madam  reminded  him  as  he  was  quitting  the  room. 

“Yes,  Madam,  I  will  be  sure — certainly,”  he  said,  hur¬ 
riedly. 

“And  bring  it  soon,  Llanyon,”  his  mistress  ordered. 

“  Certainly,  Madam — as  soon  as  possible;”  he  rubbed  his 
hands  faster,  and  a  smile  seemed  struggling  hard  with  the 
decorous  gravity  of  his  face. 

“  Llanyon  looks  as  if  he  had  heard  some  good  news,”  said 
Lady  Mountrevor.  - 

She  was  quick  to  notice,  if  Madame  Vivian  was  not— quick 
to  notice  the  joy  or  sorrow  of  any  one,  rich  or  poor,  to 
notice,  to  feel,  to  sympathize — this  proud,  cold,  unruffled, 
stately  peeress. 

In  half-an-hour  Madam  had  calculated  on  being  brought 
the  luscious  port  wine  cordial  which  her  accommodating 
physician  had  ordered  her — to  strengthen  her  and  induce 
sound  sleep,  he  implied  in  his  prescription;  he  did  not  say, 
to  banish  for  a  while  by  its  cheerful  stimulation  the  dark 
presence  of  ennui ,  or  to  drug  the  unused  muscles  and  nerv¬ 
ous  membranes,  corroding,  beneath  the  rust  of  half-a-cen- 
tury  of  slothful  ease,  into  drowsy  quiescence — for  he  was  a 
polite,  white-handed,  courteous  physician — yet  he  meant  it 
all  the  same.  But  in  twenty  minutes  came  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  and  Madam  heard  the  clink  of  the  glass  and 
silver. 

“  Come  in,”  she  said,  and  never  turned  her  head,  whilst 
Llanyon  laid  the  salver,  claret-jug,  and  tumbler  at  her  elbow. 

How  lightly  he  moved  about,  Madam  thought,  as  she 
glanced  towards  Lady  Mountrevor,  and  saw  that  her  work 
had  dropped  from  her  hand,  and  that  she  was  gazing  with 
puzzled  interest  at  some  one.  Who — who  was  it? 

“  Who  is  it?”  Madam  cried  aloud  in  surprise  and  pertur* 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  143 

batien,  as,  in  swiftly  turning,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
,  young  lady,  dressed  in  mourning,  standing  partly  behind  her 
chair— a  fair,  graceful,  slender  girl,  with  rich  nut-brown 
hair  fashionably  arranged  in  clustering  masses  of  silky  curl¬ 
ing  ends  above  her  brow,  and  wearing  a  massive  dull-gold 
watch-chain  as  the  only  ornament  on  her  black  dress. 

Her  whole  fair  face  was  lit  up  with  colour  and  excitement, 
her  gray  eyes  were  dark  and  dewy  with  tears. 

“  Madam — dear  Madam,  I  brought  in  your  tray;  I  asked 
Llanyon  to  allow  me — dear  Madam!”  The  girl  had  clasped 
her  little  hands  together  in  unconscious  entreaty,  and  half 
knelt  before  the  old  lady’s  chair. 

Her  reception  was  characteristic  of  Madam  Vivian. 

“  Who  is  it?  Who  is  it?”  she  asked  sharply  and  impetu¬ 
ously,  although  she  had  recognized  the  long-absent  face  in 
a  moment.  “Who  are  you  to  come  startling  me?  Is  this 
Winnie  Caerlyon  come  home  again — Winnie?” 

“Yes,  dear  Madam.” 

“  Indeed!  I  should  scarcely  know  you.  I  fancied  you 
were  quite  settled  in  America.  How  are  you,  my  dear?” 
and  she  touched  the  girl’s  cheek  with  her  lips.  “I  am  glad 
to  see  you  again,  although  I  think  you  could  scarcely  expect 
me  to  say  so  after  the  way  in  which  you  took  your  departure 
from  me  without  word  or  message” — at  this  juncture  Lady 
Mountrevor  resumed  her  work,  while  a  keenly  sarcastic  smile 
flickered  over  her  lips — “  but  I’m  glad  to  see  you  looking  so 
well — quite  improved,  indeed!  When  did  you  return?” 

“  Yesterday  evening,  Madam,”  said  Winnie  timidly,  feel¬ 
ing  all  the  old,  half-loving,  half-fearing  awe  of  her  stately 
patroness;  her  smiles  and  tears  almost  quenched  in  the  cool 
dry  atmosphere  of  her  reception,  while  all  the  time,  in 
reality,  Madam  was  in  a  fever  of  pleasure  and  amazement 
and  longing  hopes  that  she  might  now  and  henceforth  have 
Winnie’s  company  as  of  old.  She  would — she  must!  She 
would  make  arrangements  with  that  dreadful  step-mother 
— pay  her  well — do  anything — but  she  would  have  Winnie 
for  her  own  pet  and  protegee  and  companion  from  this 
evening  forward. 

She  determined  on  it  instantly,  and  fain  would  she  have 
imperiously  carried  her  desire  into  execution  instantly  also; 
and  her  disappointment  came  with  a  blow  that  shattered  a 
whole  fabric  of  pleasant  hopes  when  she  learned  that 
Winnie  Caerlyon  was  beyond  the  need  of  any  money 


144  ALL  in  the  wild  march  morning. 

bribe  that  she  could  offer  her  to  become  her  patient  little 
reader  and  companion  as  of  old. 

“  Two  hundred  a  year!  Why,  you  are  quite  a  little  heiress, 
Winnie!”  remarked  the  old  lady,  with  a  slightly-patronising 
smile.  “  And  what  are  you  going  to46 do  with  it?” 

Winnie  never  dreamt  of  resenting  the  inquiry,  although 
the  other  listener  at  the  work-table  curled  her  haughty  lip 
as  she  went  on  assiduously  with  her  gold-fringing. 

“  Oh,  there  will  be  plenty  of  use  found  for  it,  Madam,  or 
three  times  as  much,  in  such  a  house  as  ours!”  she  remarked, 
cheerfully. 

“  And  are  you  going  to  give  it  all  to  your  step-mother  and 
her  seven  children?”  Madam  demanded,  sharply. 

“  I  am  going  to  share  it  all,  of  course,  Madam,  to  the  last 
sixpence,  with  them,”  replied  Winnie,  so  quietly,  and  with 
such  simple  earnestness  and  dignity,  that  Madam  Vivian  felt 
deeply  rebuked. 

“  Oh,  certainly — they  are  your  father’s  children,”  Madam 
said,  hastily;  “  you  were  always  extremely  fond  of  them, 
Winnie,  I  believe.  Ah,  there  is  half-past  nine  chiming.” 

“And  it  is  quite  time  for  me  to  return  home,”  remarked 
Winnie,  rising  from  the  low  ottoman  at  Madam’s  side. 

She  understood  the  arching  of  Madam’s  eye-brows,  and  the 
change  of  tone  that  always  meant  dismissal  from  her  pres¬ 
ence  in  the  old  days.  She  accepted  it  quietly  and  meekly,  ‘ 
<is  merely  a  return  to  the  old  days.  Her  money  made  no 
difference  to  a  great  lady  like  Madam  Vivian — her  handsome, 
high-bred,  wealthy  patroness,  whom  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  describe  with  such  loving  pride  to  her  American  friends 
in  Winston  as  the  very  personification  of  the  blue-blooded 
English  aristocracy  whom  they  had  never  seen. 

The  young  girl’s  money,  however,  had  made  a  difference. 
Winnie  Caerlyon,  come  back  as  poor  as  she  went,  hoping  and 
willing  to  be  taken  up  again  by  Madam  Vivian,  petted, 
blamed,  indulged,  tyrannised  over,  treated  as  a  friend  and  as 
an  intruder,  as  an  equal  and  a  servant,  whichever  way  the 
haughty  old  lady’s  capricious  moods  inclined  her,  would  have 
been,  at  least  on  this  evening,  as  demonstratively  welcomed 
as  if  she  were  a  ^returned  prodigal.  If  she  had  only  cried 
and  begged  Madam  to  forgive  her  for  going  away  without 
her  knowledge  or  permission,  she  would  have  put  her  arms 
around  her  and  kissed  her;  but  this  cheerful,  gentle,  dignified 
young  lady,  with  her  moneyed  independence,  and  a  certain 
pleasant  independence  of  word  and  manner,  who  needed 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MOENING. 


145 


nothing  from  her,  and  had  but  come  to  visit  her  from  an  old 
kindly  remembrance — all  this  displeased  and  disappointed 
the  poor  old  lady  in  her  peevish  loneliness,  and  she  could  not 
help  showing  it.  Therefore  she  dismissed  the  girlish  pres¬ 
ence  that  was  better  than  sunlight  on  the  dreary  waste  of  her 
friendless  life,  "and  would  not  even  say  to  her,  “  Come  soon 
again  to  me;  I  have  missed  you  sorely.” 

“  Good  night!  Good  night,  my  dear!  ”  she  said,  extending 
her  Little,  plump,  satin-fair  hand,  with  the  icy  brilliance  of 
its  splendid  rose-diamonds  restlessly  scintillating,  the  object 
of  Winnie’s  most  fervent  admiration  and  admiring  memory 
through  nearly  eleven  years. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  sweeping  silken  robes  as  she  bade 
Winnie  the  coldly-polite  farewell  that  she  might  have  be¬ 
stowed  as  well  after  an  absence  of  seven  days  as  seven  years, 
and  from  the  depths  of  the  chair  by  the  distant  table,  where 
she  had  been  partially  hidden,  Lady  Mountrevor’s  tall  im¬ 
perial  figure  moved  forward,  and  stood  at  the  opposite  side 
of  Madam  Vivian’s  chair. 

Winnie  had  not  ventured  on  more  than  a  swift  passing 
glance  when  she  entered  the  room;  now  her  eyes  fell,  and 
the  shy  colour  rose  in  her  cheeks  beneath  the  steady  light  of 
the  proud  cold  gaze  bent  on  her  slender,  short  girlish  figure. 

Madam  glanced  up  in  some  surprise. 

“  Ah — you  have  not  met  my  little  friend,  Miss  Winnie 
Caerlyon,  before,  I  think,  Lady  Mountrevor?” 

“No,”  said  Lady  Mountrevor;  and  Winnie,  looking  up 
hastily,  encountered  the  haughty  penetrating  eyes  that  had 
indeed  once  before  overwhelmed  her  in  girlish  shame  and 
mortification. 

The  stately,  handsome  peeress,  Lady  Mountrevor,  and  the 
beautiful  young  lady,  Mildred  Tredennick,  were  one  ! 

“  No,”  Lady  Mountrevor  repeated  gravely,  but  with  a 
peculiar  marked  courtesy  which  rather  contrasted  with 
Madam’s  bearing  toward  her  former  protegee^  “I  have  never 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Caerlyon — I  have  heard  of 
her  very  often.” 

“  I  saw  you,  though,  several  times,  Lady  Mountrevor,” 
said  Winnie,  smiling,  “  before  I  went  to  America — when  you 
were  staying  here  eight  years  ago.” 

“  Oh!  that  was  before  my  niece  became  Lady  Mountrevor, 
Winnie,”  explained  Madam. 

“Yes — that  was  before  I  became  Lady  Mountrevor,”  said 
Madam’s  niece,  with  a  strange  smile.  “  My  cousin  Stephen 

.  10 


146 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


Tredennick  was  here  then  also — yon  knew  Stephen  Treden¬ 
nick,  Miss  Caerlyon?  ” 

“A  little — I  met  -him  two  or  three  times,”  answered 
Winnie. 

She  turned  away  her  head  with  a  pretence  at  pushing  a 
chair  farther  off,  but  Lady  Mountrevor  detected  the  quick 
troubled  change  that  came  over  the  fair  placid  face. 

“  She  remembers  him  still,”  she  said  within  herself;  “  she 
can  be  faithful  to  a  memory.  These  frail,  weak,  gentle-look¬ 
ing  beings  have  wonderful  powers  of  endurance,”  she  mused, 
with  the  sting  of  bitter  memories  rising  up  within  her. 

“  Good-night,  Miss  Caerlyon,”  she  said,  in  her  accustomed 
grave,  cold  voice,  with,  however,  a  slight  smile  of  cordiality 
in  the  proud  steady  eyes  that  scanned  the  girl’s  pure,  earnest 
face  so  closely.  “  I  trust  we  shall  see  you  soon  again — shall 
we  not,  aunt?  ” 

Madam  had  no  resource  but  to  yield  as  graciously  as  she 
might. 

“  I  hope  so,”  said  she,  unbending  a  little.  “  Will  you  come 
and  dine  with  Lady  Mountrevor  and  myself  on  Monday, 
Winifred?  ” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

“  It’s  an  awful  evening,  Winnie ;  but  of  course  one 
wouldn’t  like  to  refuse  an  invitation  like  this.  There’ll  be 
lots  of  grand  people  there,  I  suppose,  and  it’s  very  polite  of 
Madam  to  ask  ’e  so  soon  to  dinner  after  ’e  came  home.” 

Poor  Mrs.  Caerlyon,  like  other  virulent  democrats,  was 
easily  soothed  into  complaisant  admiration  of  the  aristocrats 
by  a  little  flattering  attention. 

“  It  is,”  assented  Winnie  quietly  ;  but  at  the  same  time  an 
intuitive  knowledge  possessed  her  that  the  note — written 
with  scented  violet  ink  on  coroneted  paper— dashed  off  in 
Lady  Mountrevor’s  careless  flowing  penmanship,  had  also  its 
sole  origin  in  Lady  Mountrevor’s  courteous  consideration. 

The  request  that  she  would  put  off  her  visit  on  Monday, 
and  come  on  Wednesday  instead,  when  they  were  to  have  a 
few  friends  whom  she  might  like  to  meet,  purported  to  be 
from  Madam  Vivian  certainly;  but  Winnie,  with  all  her  loyal 
love  to  her  stately  old  friend,  could  not  quite  reconcile  it  to 
herself  as  having  been,  at  all  events,  from  her  dictation. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


147 


“  Though  why  should  Lady  Mountrevor  take  any  particu¬ 
lar  notice  of  me?”  she  pondered.  “  She  is  a  grand,  beautiful, 
high-bred  lady;  but  I  should  never  have  expected  her  to 
think  twice  of  me.” 

And  Winnie  shook  her  head  in  unconscious  earnestness  at 
its  reflection  in  the  glass,  wherein  she  saw  it  crowned  with 
great  braids  and  masses  of  tiny  curls  of  lustrous  golden 
brown,  with  a  spray  of  half-blown  white  roses  and  buds 
fastened  at  the  side — for  Winnie  was  dressing  for  the  dinner¬ 
party  at  Roseworthy,  and  all  Winnie’s  toilette  was  under¬ 
going  inspection  by  at  least  half-a-dozen  of  Winnie’s  brothers 
and  sisters,  who,  their  eyes  full  of  wonder  and  delight,  were 
gathered  into  the  little  crowded  bed-room,  bestowing  them¬ 
selves  on  beds  and  chairs,  and  the  floor — anywhere,  so  that 
they  could  get  a  good  look  at  “sister  Winnie.” 

“  Winnie  has  black  veils — black-lace  veils  all  over  her 
beautiful  silk  gown!”  Johnnie  whispered  in  an  awe-stricken 
voice  to  Tommy. 

“That’s  not  veils — that’s  gennydean  and  net — ain’t  it, 
Sarah?”  asked  Louie,  with  much  contempt  for  masculine 
ignorance.  “You  don’t  know,  Johnny.  You  didn’t  see 
sister’s  necklace  either,  nor  her  bracelets,  nor  her  slippers*  all 
made  of  satin — real  satin!” 

Both  Johnnie  and  Tommy  joined  in  a  sarcastic  “guffaw” 
at  this  last  announcement. 

“  They’ll  stick  in  the  mud,  then!”  cried  Tommy.  “  Satin’ll 
not  keep  out  much  water — and  the  road’s  running  like  a  mill- 
stream!  ” 

Sarah  Matilda,  from  her  post  at  the  dressing-table  as  a.  lov¬ 
ing  but  most  inefficient  tire-woman,  looked  round  with  a 
grand  and  lofty  rebuke. 

“  A  lady  always  goes  to  a  party  in  a  covered  carriage,”  she 
said  to  the  abashed  boys.  “  Sister  is  going  in  Madam  Viv¬ 
ian’s  carriage;”  and  beneath  the  weight  of  the  grandeur  of 
this  announcement  the  boys  sank  into  silence,  watching  their 
sister’s  adorning  with  mingled  amazement  and  fascination. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  they  had  ever  seen  anything  like 
it  in  their  lives — the  spectacle  of  a  lady  robed  in  silk  and 
gauzy  black,  with  a  white,  bare  neck  adorned  by  a  necklet  of 
flashing  jet,  bare  arms  gleaming  pearly-white  against  the  soft 
blackness  of  her  flowing  robes — adorned  with  bracelets,  roses 
in  her  hair,  and  her  feet  shod  with  black  satin.  It  was  an 
event  as  unprecedented  as  undreamed  of  in  the  monotonous 
y^ars  of  that  poverty-hedged,  meagre  household.  Their  sis- 


148 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


ter’s  simple  attire  was  regal  magnificence  in  the  children’s 
eyes;  and  “  sister  Winnie”  herself,  in  virtue  of  her  assump¬ 
tion  of  it,  had  become  once  more  the  mythical,  far-off  lady  in 
North  America,  who  sent  bank-drafts  and  beautiful  presents 
— she  could  not  be  one  of  them,  dressed  in  silk  and  lace,  and 
wearing  jewels  and  white  roses,  with  an  intangible  perfume 
of  heliotrope  softly  emanating  from  the  gauzy  glistening  folds 
of  her  lovely  black  dress! 

Somewhat  of  this  was  in  the  wistful  little  faces  that  hur¬ 
ried  down  the  stairs  after  Winnie  to  see  her  get  into  the 
carriage — a  real  carriage,  with  two  splendid  horses,  and  the 
coachman  in  livery  waiting  at  the  porch !  They  crowded  round 
timidly  and  respectfully,  with  eager  eyes  and  parted  lips, 
watching  Winnie  putting  on  a  large  warm  shawl.  Her  foot 
was  on  the  step  to  go  in,  when  she  turned  back — how  often 
the  children  recalled  it — how  well  they  remembered  it  for 
years  afterwards! — and  kissed  them  fondly  all  round. 

“  My  darlings,  go  in  out  of  the  cold,”  she  said,  with  tears 
in  her  loving  eyes  because  of  those  longing,  wistful,  timidly- 
admiring  ones  watching  her — “go  in,  and  we  will  have  a 
beautiful  party  of  our  own,  when  we  go  into  our  new  house 
— please  goodness!” 

When  the  carriage-door  was  shut,  and  “  sister  Winnie’s  ” 
bright,  gentle  face,  looking  so  lovely  with  its  bright  colour 
and  sparkling  eyes,  was  lost  to  view,  the  children  ran  back 
to  the  fireside,  singing  and  dancing  with  glee.  “  Sister 
Winnie ’’was  really  at  home — at  home  forever  and  always! 
“  Sister  Winnie  ”  was  at  home — and  all  the  pleasant  future 
and  its  promised  ddliglits,  which  they  should  share  with  her, 
appeared  close  at  hand! 

******* 

“  It’s  a  terrible  night,  Miss  Winnie,”  old  Llanyon  said,  as 
he  received  her,  with  a  certain  kindly  gratification  beaming 
in  his  withered  old  face — “a  terrible  night,  indeed!  ”  He 
lowered  his  voice  a  little — “  Madam’s  fretting  a  good  deal, 
Miss  Winnie.  You  know  the  Captain  is  coming  home  in 
about  ten  days  or  so,  Madam  Vivian  believes,  and  she  is  think¬ 
ing  of  this  storm,  Miss  Winnie.  Madam  often  feels  like  that 
when  Captain  Stephen  is — ahem!  Madam’s  maid  is  waiting 
for  you,  Miss  Winnie.” 

With  a  total  change  of  manner  the  old  man  ceased  his 
communication,  and,  with  a  stiffly  decorous  bow  and  wave  of 
his  hand,  consigned  Winnie  to  Madam’s  maid,  standing  a  lit¬ 
tle  way  off,  in  her  silk  flounces  and  gold  chain  and  guipure 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING 


149 


lace  cap — black-eyed  Miss  Trewhella,  with  her  crafty  eyes 
grown  craftier  and  harder,  her  smooth  deferential  manner 
more  like  a  badly-put-on  mask  than  ever,  her  sallow  skin 
ever  so  much  sallower. 

“  How  are  you,  Trewhella?  ”  said  Winnie,  even  pleased  to 
meet  her  old  enemy,  and  kindly  shaking  hands. 

“  Pretty  well,  Miss  Caerlyon — oh,  thank  you,  Miss  Caer- 
ly0n — hem!  Hope  you’re  quite  well,  Miss  Caerlyon.  You 
look  strong — so  glad  to  see  you  look  strong;  better  colour 
than  you  used  to  have,  Miss  Caerlyon;  healthier — reader, 
you  know — hem!  ” 

“  Poor  Trewhella!  ”  said  Winnie  to  herself,  with  a  keen 
sense  of  amusement  that  would  have  provoked  that  injured 
lady  even  more  deeply  could  she  have  known  it — “  she  is  try¬ 
ing  to  insinuate  that  I  have  rouged  very  highly,  as  she  used 
to  tell  me  long  ago  that  she  did  not  admire  the  queer  yellow¬ 
ish  shade  that  was  in  my  hair.” 

Indeed  Miss  Trewhella,  with  knitted  brows  and  formally- 
smiling  mouth,  glancing  at  the  burnished  braids  and  silky 
curls,  looked  as  if  she  would  much  like  to  insinuate  that 
Miss  Caerlyon  had  bought  a  great  quantity  of  false  tresses, 
and  that  they  shone  too  much  and  were  too  abundant;  for 
Miss  Winnie  was  altogether  displeasing  to  Madam  Vivian’s 
genteel  waiting-woman. 

“  The  idea,”  she  said,  with  much  inward  envious  disturb¬ 
ance,  “  of  her  having  upper  skirts  of  net  edged  with  blonde, 
like  her  ladyship’s — over  eight-and-sixpence-a-yard  black  gros 
grain!” 

She  was  absorbed  in  this  cause  of  provocation,  and  Winnie 
in  trying  to  adjust  her  white  crape  tucker  without  any  assist¬ 
ance  from  the  lady  in  quasi  attendance,  when  a  loud  impa¬ 
tient  rattle  of  the  door-handle  startled  both,  and,  before 
Winnie  could  utter  a  word  of  permission  to  enter,  the  bolt 
was  shot  back,  and  the  door  itself  flung  against  the  wall,  and 
a  young  gentleman  of  some  four  or  five  years  of  age  made 
an  abrupt  and  unceremonious  entrance,  rushing  towards 
Winnie  with  a  violent  clutch  at  her  fragile  flounces  of  net 
and  gossamer,  and  imperiously  demanding — 

“Who  are  you? ” 

“Who  is  this  little  boy?”  asked  Winnie,  striving  to  rescue 
her  attire. 

Miss  Trewhella  drew  her  chin  back,  and  her  head  up,  and 
dropped  her  eyelids,  with  a  withering  air  of  reproof. 

“  That  is  Lord  Eustace  Mountrevor,  Miss  Caerlyon,”  she 


150 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


said,  with  a  pitying  smile  and  a  cough — “  a  lovely  boy! 
Were  you  looking  for  me,  Lord  Eustace,  darling?”  she  in¬ 
quired,  with  melting  pathos  and  sweetness,  bending  down  as 
if  she  were  going  to  worship  the  small  idol  in  the  crimson 
velvet"  tunic. 

*No,  I  wasn’t!”  retorted  his  lordship,  aiming  a  kick  at 
his  devotee.  “Who  are  you?  Who  are  you,  I  say?”  he 
repeated,  with  an  impatient  dance  on  Winnie’s  silk  train, 
and  another  clutch  at  her  gauzy  skirts. 

“My  dear  child,”  said  Winnie,  laying  violent  hold  of 
“  his 'lordship, ”  in  her  turn,  unclasping  his  hands,  and  keep¬ 
ing  him  firmly  at  arm’s  length  in  spite  of  his  struggles, 
while  Miss  Trewhella’s  eyes  dilated  and  she  fairly  snorted 
with  surprise  and  indignation,  “  stand  quietly  and  speak  like 
a  young  gentleman  if  you  want  me  to  answer  you.” 

“No,  I  sha’n’t!  No,  I  sha’n’t!  Let  me  go,  you!”  howled 
“his  lordship,”  kicking  vigorously  all  round.  “Jeanneton 
— Jeanneton,  I  say!  Je  vous  demande ,  Jeanneton!” 

“  Miss  Caerlyon,”  said  Miss  Trewhella,  quite  in  a  spasm  of 
offended  dignity,  “  don’t  hold  Lord  Eustace  in  that  manner, 
if  you  please.  Come  to  me,  Lord  Eustace,  my  sweet  love!” 

But  Lord  Eustace,  knowing  perfectly  well,  with  a  child’s 
unfailing  acute  perception,  that  beneath  all  Miss  Trewhella’s 
sugared  tenderness  of  words  she  entertained  as  much  real 
love  for  him  as  for  a  monkey,  viper,  or  toad,  or  any  other 
noxious  and  troublesome  little  creature,  repelled  her  caresses 
with  even  more  threatening  demonstrations. 

“Are  you  Lady  Mountrevor’s  little  son?”  asked  Winnie, 
gently,  looking  earnestly  and  wistfully  at  the  child.  His 
existence,  seen  in  the  light  of  that  far-off  past,  seemed  so 
strange— that  far-off  time  over  the  remembrance  of  which 
the  years  had  drawn  a  gentle  veiling  to  soothe  the  unforgot¬ 
ten  sorrow,  when  she  had  shrunk  before  his  beautiful  young 
mother,  in  the  proud  loveliness  of  her  early  girlhood,  as  her 
joyous,  successful  rival. 

Why  had  she  not  been  such  indeed?  Winnie  never  could 
tell.  She  had  not  married  the  cousin  who  loved  and  admired 
her  so,  whose  plighted  wife  she  had  been.  Why?  The 
story  of  Mildred  Tredennick’s  grand  alliance,  the  coronet  she 
had  won  for  her  haughty  brow,  the  title  of  “  my  lady,”  and 
the  possession  of  the  Mountrevor  rent-roll,  formed  answer 
sufficient  to  Winifred’s  simple,  romantic  nature;  and  her 
fond,  constant  heart  had  repressed  even  its  own  silent  relief 
and  gratification  at  the  unexpected  news  which  reached  her 


ALL  IN  THE  WILL  MARCH  MORNING. 


15! 

across  the  Atlantic,  for  did  it  not  tell  of  pain  and  disappoint¬ 
ment  to  him  who,  as  she  believed,  had  loved  proud  Mildred 
Tredennick?  And,  besides,  that  fondly-^cherished  growth  of 
her  own  wild  folly  had  been  too  severely  crushed  ever  to 
bloom  again.  What  was  it  to  Winnie  Caerlyon  whether 
Tredennick  of  Tregarthen  lived  wedded  or  unwedded? 

'  “I  am!”  cried  the  young  gentleman,  with  the  air  of  a 
small  emperor.  “  My  father  is  Henry,  Lord  Mountrevor,  and 
my  mother’s  Mildred,  Lady  Mountrevor,  and  I  am  Eustace, 
Lord  Mountrevor;  and  I  am - ” 

“  Decidedly  an  egotistical  and  vulgar  little  boy!”  spoke  his 
mother’s  'clear,  haughty  tones  behind  him  from  the  open 
doorway.  “Miss  Caerlyon,  I  beg  to  apologise  for  my  rude 
child.  What  brings  you  here,  sir,  and  where  is  your  nurse?” 

She  spoke  in  displeasure,  without  one  indulgent,  motherly 
smile  or  caress,  and,  with  a  feeling  of  surprise  and  dismay, 
Winnie  watched  her  firm  white  hand  grasp  the  child’s  shoul¬ 
der  tightly,  push  him  before  her  out  of  the  room,  and  shut 
the  door. 

“Between  Lord  Mountrevor  and  his  French  nurse  the  boy 
has  completely  become  that  domestic  nuisance,  a  spoiled 
pet!”  she  said,  with  a  careless  laugh. 

“  Ah,  poor  dear  little  fellow,  he  was  only  asking  me  who  I 
was!”  extenuated  Winnie,  whose  tender  maternal  heart  this 
little  episode  had  troubled;  causing  her  at  the  same  time 
a  quick,  intangible  sensation  of  wonder  and  pity  for  the 
young  mother  whose  child  was  evidently  so  small  a  source 
of  either  pride  or  pleasure. 

“I  think  he  was  giving  you  a  good  deal  of  gratuitous 
information  beside,”  replied  Lady  Mountrevor,  in  the  same 
tone.  “  I  cannot  imagine  who  teaches  the  child  to  speak  in 
that  detestably  parvenu  style,”  and  the  light  of  displeasure  in 
her  ladyship’s  flashing  eyes  shone  right  on  Miss  Trewhella’s 
moonshiny,  deferential  simper,  and  extinguished  it  on  the 
spot.  “Will  you  come  into  my  sitting-room  until  it  is  time 
for  the  guests  to  arrive?  ”  Lady  Mountrevor  said,  courteously. 
“I  fear  they  will  be  a  very  limited  number  on  such  a  terrible 
•  night  as  this.  This  way,  Miss  Caerlyon.  The  room  is 
warmer  and  more  comfortable  than  the  drawing-room  just 
now,  I  think,”  and  she  pushed  aside  one  of  the  heavy  velvet 
portieres  that  hung  before  the  doors  of*  all  the  principal 
rooms  in  Roseworthy,  and  disclosed  her  suite  of  apartments 
— four  in  all — communicating  with  each  other — beautiful 
nests  of  rooms,  all  blue-velvet  pile  and  amber-silk  hangings, 


152 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


redolent  of  exotic  perfumes  from  rare  foreign  plants  in  fall 
marble  jardinieres  and  flowers  in  a  Dresden  lily  vase,  and 
aglow  with  the  warm  light  of  ruddy  fires  on  the  marble 
hearths. 

Miss  Trewhella  paused  to  watch,  scarcely  crediting  her 
powers  of  vision,  until  she  saw  Winnie’s  black  dress  glide  in, 
followed  by  the  haughty  peeress  in  her  long  robe  of  glisten¬ 
ing  snow-white  silks,  without  a  touch  of  colour  to  relieve 
their  frosty,  wraith-like  purity,  save  the  massive  bands  of 
dead  gold  and  emeralds  clasped  on  her  waxen  arms,  and  the 
great  locket  hanging  from  the  black  velvet  ribbon  around  her 
throat — the  splendid  locket  with  its  magnificent  emeralds, 
which  her  ladyship  wore  so  constantly.  And  then  the  velvet 
curtain  closed,  and  hid  the  tete-a-tete  interview  between  Win¬ 
nie  and  Lady  Mountrevor  from  Miss  Trewhella’s  jealous  gaze. 

“What’s  up  now?”  she  muttered,  perturbedly.  “Her 
high  and  mighty  ladyship  a-taking  of  her  up  so!  I  thought 
she  wouldn’t  notice  her  no  more  than  if  it  was  Jeanneton.” 

To  Miss  Trewhella  the  good  fortune  that  fell  to  others 
was  looked  upon  as  a  positive  loss  to  herself;  all  that  was 
not  for  her  was  against  her  in  her  estimation;  and  it  was 
with  a  martyred  sense  of  unredressed  wrongs  that  the  in¬ 
jured  lady  betook  herself  to  her  mistress’s  toilette. 

“  Reely,  Madam,  you’ll  be  delighted  when  you  see  Miss 
Winnie,”  she  commenced,  with  so  many  smiles  and  such 
excessive  amiability  that  her  mistress  at  once,  with  inward 
impatience,  perceived  her  abigail  to  be  in  one  of  her  worst 
moods — “  she’s  dressed  up  so  stylish,  reely,  and  in  such 
spirits!  No  wonder!” 

“Why?”  Madam  asked. 

“Oh,  Madam.no  wonder!  Why,  everything!  Your  invit¬ 
ing  of  her  here  so  beautiful  and  kind,  and  sending  your 
carriage  and  horses  for  her.  Michael’s  wet  through  and 
through  going  up  that  terrible  hill  at  Tolgooth  in  the  torrents 
of  rain,  and  the  carriage’s  one  patch  of  yellow  mud.  You 
never  saw  the  like,  Madam!” 

“  Do  hurry  with  that  plait !  ”  interrupted  her  mistress, 
shortly. 

“  And  her  ladyship  making  so  much  of  her,  too  !  ”  pursued 
Miss  TrewL.ella,  satisfied  with  the  irritating  effect  of  her  first 
piece  of  iniormation,  and  quitting  it  for  another,  productive 
of  possibly  greater  annoyance.  “  Reely,  I  was  surprised — 
quite  as  if  Miss  Winnie  was  her  sister — a  great  lady  like 
Lady  Moun:  revor!  Such  condescension,  you  know,  Madam!” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


153 


“  Her  ladyship  has  a  great  many  fancies,”  said  Madam, 

.  coldly.  “  She  has  no  reason  to  feel  any  peculiarly  deep 

f  interest  in  Miss  Caerlyon  that  I  am  aware  of.” 

“  Ah,  well,  of  course  it’s  a  very  nice  thing  for  poor  Miss 
Winnie  to  have  Lady  Mountrevor  notice  her  like  that !  ”  the 
amiable  waiting-woman  continued,  smiling  meditatively  over 
her  mistress’s  violet  dinner-dress.  “Lady  Mountrevor  has 
just  the  same  ways  as  her  cousin,  Captain  Tredennick,  hasn’t 
she,  Madam?  Takes  up  fancies,  and  likings  and  disliking** 
for  people,  just  like  Captain  Stephen  used” — she  was  putting 
the  last  touches  to  Madam’s  velvet  drapery,  and  reserved  her 
trump  card  to  the  last.  “It’s  a  terrible  stormy  night,”  she 
murmured  plaintively,  as  if  partly  to  herself.  “  I  do  hope 
it’ll  all  pass  away,  and  the  fine  weather  come  before  Captain 
Stephen  comes  into  the  Channel.  Madam,  is  it  a  week  or  ten 
days  now  until  we  may  expect  him?  Miss  Winnie  was 
reckoning  the  time,  but  I  forget  what  she  said.” 

“Miss  Winnie!”  Madam  ejaculated,  involuntarily,  with  an 
angry  start  and  contraction  of  her  eyebrows.  “  Miss  Winnie 
knows  nothing  about  the  probable  time  of  Captain  Treden- 
nick’s  return,  further  than  she  might  learn  from  common 
report,”  she  continued,  more  quietly  and  carelessly.  You 
must  have  been  mistaken,  Trewhella.” 

“Oh,  I  dare  say — perhaps  I  was,  Madam,”  Miss  Trewhella 
returned,  sneering  as  broadly  as  she  dared. 

“  Yes;  and  you  think  I  was  mistaken,  too,  don’t  you?  Oh, 
yes;  and  you’re  not  vexed  at  all?  Oh,  dear,  no!”  Miss  Tre¬ 
whella  muttered  to  herself  malevolently,  as  she  stood  to 
watch  her  stately  mistress  descending  the  wide  marble  stair¬ 
case  with  slow,  deliberate  steps,  looking  so  like  a  noble  old 
white-haired  queen  in  her  purple  velvet  train,  and  with  a  jet 
tiara  on  her  silvery  rippled  tresses.  “  You’re  too  proud,  and 
grand,  and  haughty  to  see  what’s  under  your  eyes;  but  it’s 
not  for  want  of  me  showing  of  it  to  you,”  she  went  on,  eyeing 
Lady  Mountrevor’s  drawn  portiere  venomously,  and  debating 
whether  she  dared  venture  inside  it  with  her  ear  to  the  key¬ 
hole  for  a  few  minutes.  “You’re  so  grand,  and  every  one 
belonging  to  you  so  high  and  mighty,  you  think  she’d  never 
.dare!  And  she  wouldn’t,  either — oh,  no,  not  at  all!  And 
you  wouldn’t  have  had  for  your  niece,  seven  years  ago,  the 
Coastguardman’s  daughter,  Mrs.  Stephen  Tredennick,  only 
for  me  a-putting  of  you  up  to  things,  and  a-telling  of  you 
what  he  meant — a  great  soft  dolt,  with  his  paying  visits  and 
caking  walks,  and  twenty  pound  presents — oh  dear,  no!  And 


154 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


she  haven’t  been  to  America  for  nothing,  with  her  painted 
cheeks  and  heaps  of  curls,  like  one  of  the  girls  in  the  stairy- 
scope  pictures,  running  over  here  fetching  and  carrying  for 
Madam  as  soon  as  ever  she  heard  tell  of  the  Captain  coming 
home — such  meanness!”  the  gentle  soliloquist  said,  with  a 
writhe  of  her  upper  lip  that  completely  uncovered  one  sharp 
yellow  eye-tooth  to  the  roots.  “  And  my  lady,  with  her 
notions,  a-taking  of  her  up,  and  making  much  of  her,  just  for 
J^er  contrary  ways!  I’d  let  her  know  what  Miss  Winnie  was 
planning,  so  meek  and  mild,  if  I  dared  to  speak  to  her  at  all 
— only  one  might  as  well  go  catch  a  nettle  or  a  hot  flat-iron 
as  meddle  with  my  Lady  Mountrevor  when  she  didn’t  like.” 

But,  notwithstanding  this  alarming  comparison  of  Lady 
Mountrevor’s  powers  of  punishing  un relished  interference,  as 
the  minutes  slipped  by  and  that  blue  velvet  curtain  remained 
provokingly  immovable,  Miss  Trewhella  found  it  impossible 
to  resist  one  fleeting  gratification  of  her  angry  curiosity,  and 
noiselessly  she  slipped  inside  the  folds. 

Unhappily  the  reward  for  her  painful  pursuit  of  knowl¬ 
edge,  demanding  the  doubling  of  her  angular  frame  nearly  in 
two,  keeping  the  keyhole  uncovered  and  her  ear  disagreeably 
squeezed  against  the  orifice,  was  scanty  and  unsatisfactory, 
resulting,  in  point  of  fact,  simply  in  “  white  roses  a  cluster 
of  waxen-white  blossoms  and  drooping  buds.  Costly,  fra¬ 
grant,  carefully-nurtured  green-house  treasures  they  were, 
nestled  amidst  dark  green  leaves  and  mossy  stems,  in  the 
slender  primrose-hued  lily  vase. 

As  Lady  Mountrevor  and  Winnie  rose  to  leave  the  room 
the  former  noticed  her  comuanion’s  silent  gaze  of  admiration 
at  the  flowers. 

“  Do  you  like  flowers,  Miss  Caerlyon?”  she  asked. 

“Very  much,”  said  Winnie,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  roses  as 
she  turned  reluctantly  away — “  and  those  are  so  beautiful.” 

Lady  Mountrevor  drew  away  from  the  table  where  the 
vase  stood,  with  a  slightly  embarrassed  air. 

“  Come  downstairs  with  me,  and  you  shall  choose  from 
the  greenhouse,”  she  said,  hurriedly;  “  you  will  pardon  my 
not  offering  you  those.  I— I  never  wear  them — they  are  so 
fragile,  and  fade  so  soon,  you  know.” 

“  Oh,  Lady  Mountrevor,  how  could  you  think  that  I  wished 
for  the  flowers  from  your  vase!”  exclaimed  Winnie,  in  sur¬ 
prise.  “  They  are  indeed  too  fragile  and  beautiful  to  be 
crushed  and  withered  in  one’s  dress  or  hair.” 

“And  yet  you  wear  them!”  her  ladyship  said,  with  a 


7,  /  :  : 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


155 


slight  smile,  glancing  at  the  spray  on  Winnie’s  brown  tresses. 
“  Oh,  those  are  French  cambric  and  silk  things,”  returned 
Winnie,  slightingly;  “  but  these  are  lovely  soft  pure  white 

real  ones.  Besides - ”  She  paused  with  a  timid  flush  and 

glance  at  Lady  Mountrevor’s  cold  calm  face. 

“  Besides  what?”  There  was  no  trace  of  mockery  in  her 
unsmiling  eyes — no  sarcasm  in  the  compressed  lines  around 
her  chiseled  lips. 

“  Besides*,”  said  Winnie,  a  little  unsteadily,  “  I  have  asso-, 
ciations — memories— about  white  roses  that  make  them  seem 
almost  sacred  flowers  to  me.  I  never  could  make  an  adorn¬ 
ment  of  those  lovely  living  buds  and  half-unclosed  petals.” 

She  paused  half  fearfully  again.  Madam  Vivian  would 
have  received  this  confession  with  such  a  delicate  keen-edged 
ridicule — how  was  it  that  haughty  Mildred,  Lady  Mountrevor, 
was  so  much  quicker  to  comprehend,  so  much  more  quietly 
sympathizing,  even  in  her  proud  reserve? 

“Have  you?”  she  said,  and  the  darkness  of  a  shadow 
seemed  to  overspread  her  white  polished  brow  and  dark  bril¬ 
liant  eyes.  She  turned  partly  aside,  and  Winnie  saw  her 
long  fair  jeweled  fingers  close  and  tighten  convulsively  for 
an  instant  around  the  emerald  locket  resting  on  her  neck. 
“  So  have  I.” 

The  words  seemed  to  escape  from  her  lips  without  her 
knowledge  and  Winnie  half  doubted  if  they  were  meant  for 
her  ear. 

“Ah,”  remarked  Winnie,  with  a  sigh,  as  they  left  the 
room  together,  “  my  association  with  them  is  connected  with 
a  grave — a  lonely  grave,  far  away.” 

And,  as  she  sadly  spoke,  the  white  roses  seemed  to  magic¬ 
ally  waft  the  memory  of  that  far-off  lonely  grave  on  their 
sweet  dying  breath,  the  rush  and  sway  of  the  wintry  storm 
sweeping  around  the  old  Cornish  mansion  seemed  to  re-echo 
softly  in  the  murmuring  of  thick-clothed  elm-boughs  in  the 
scented  summer  morning  breeze,  and  the  still  warm  radiance 
of  the  wide  lamplit  hall  and  marble  staircase  changed  to  the 
glowing  sunlight  in  that  sheltered  nook  where  the  daisies 
bloomed  and  the  dewy  roses  twined  their  wreathing  stems, 
and  where  the  morning  rays,  golden  and  bright— -ah,  so 
bright,  so  glad,  so  sparkling! — fell  on  the  long  polished  oak 
coffin  and  its  dazzling  plate  enriched  with  white  blossoms  as 
it  was  lowered  swiftly  and  surely  into  the  darksome  grave. 

“  With  a  grave — a  grave  far  away!”  Lady  Mildred  paused 
suddenly,  and  even  amidst  her  confused  surprise  Winnie 


156 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


noticed  how  the  pale  lips  parted  widely  and  a  wild  eager 
look  blazed  in  the  proud  dark  eyes.  “  So  is  mine!”  she 
whispered,  hoarsely,  the  wild  eagerness  of  her  gaze  fading 
into  one  of  far-away  dreary  blankness. 

Another  moment,  however,  and,  ere  Winnie  could  ques¬ 
tion  or  scarcely  comprehend,  her  companion  had  passed  the 
threshold  of  the  drawing-room,  and  entered  the  presence  of 
smiling  well-dressed  dinner  guests  and  Madam  Vivian,  and 
Mildred,  Lady  Mountrevor,  was  the  courteous,  unruffled, 
stately  peeress  once  more. 

The  soul  of  the  amiable  Miss  Trewhella  might  have  been 
illumined  by  the  gladness  of  content  could  she  but  have 
known  how  effectually  her  malicious  hints  had  aided  in  spoil¬ 
ing  poor  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  enjoyment  of  her  first  dinner 
party  at  Roseworthy  House.  All  unconscious  as  she  was  of 
any  cause  for  such  an  effect,  she  could  not  but  perceive  that 
Madam  Vivian’s  chill  courtesy  and  smilingly  polite  indiffer¬ 
ence  to  her  presence  was  not  the  reception  she  would  have 
been  favoured  with  had  she  been  welcome.  Any  doubts  she 
might  have  had  as  to  the  author  of  the  invitation  were  at  an 
end  before  the  evening  was  half  over. 

“  I  did  wrong  to  accept  it — I  did  wrong  to  come  at  all,” 
Winnie  thought,  with  keen  pain  and  mortification.  “  Why 
did  Lady  Mountrevor  ask  me?  Madam  did  not  wish  it,  I 
see  quite  plainly.  I  wish  the  evening  were  over — I  wish  I 
were  home  again!”  she  said,  earnestly,  with  the  tears  rush¬ 
ing  to  her  eyes,  as  she  withdrew  to  a  distance  from  the 
guests,  who  seemed  quite  occupied  in  each  other  and  their 
hostesses. 

There  were  but  three  ladies  who  had  ventured  out,  through 
darkness  and  tempest,  to  accept  the  invitation  of  Madam  of 
Roseworthy,  and,  whilst  the  two  gentlemen  finished  the  ’4V 
port  in  the  dining-room,  the  doctor’s  wife  and  the  minister’s 
wife  and  daughter  were  in  a  delighted  state  of  admiration 
over  “  dear  Lady  Mountrevor’s”  embroidery,  and  “  dear  Lady 
Mountrevor’s”  portfolio  of  foreign  sketches,  in  the  drawing¬ 
room. 

“Miss  Caerlyon  !”  Madam  called,  sharply. 

“Well,  Madam?”  said  Winnie,  rather  startled,  and  drawing 
back  from  the  window,  where  she  had  been  drearily  looking 
out  through  the  parted  curtains  at  the  stormy  sky,  with  the 
black  clouds  scudding  wildly  athwart  its  gloomy  arch,  and 
listening  to  the  furious  roar  of  the  breakers,  borne  on  each 
hissing  gust  of  wind,  out  there  by  Tregarthen  Head,  the 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  157 

ghastly  gleam  of  the  white  fury  of  which  was  dimly  visible 
through  the  murky  night. 

“  Is  the  feminine  element  in  our  company  too  preponderat¬ 
ing  to  be  pleasing  to  you?”  Madam  demanded  with  a  cold 
smile.  “  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  enliven  us  with  a  little 
music?” 

The  request  was  made  in  the  tone  of  a  command,  and 
Winnie  felt  it  to  be  so. 

“  With  pleasure,”  she  said,  formally  and  gravely,  though 
she  coloured  deeply  $s  she  moved  at  once  to  the  piano;  “I 
was  only  looking  out  at  the  storm,  and  thinking  of  it.” 

But  this  slight  apologetic  remark  touched  right  on  the 
point  of  the  nervous  anxiety  which  had  been  secretly  filling 
Madam  Vivian’s  heart  with  restless  irritable  pain. 

44  Ah,”  she  rejoined,  shortly,  and  almost  brusquely,  44  you 
ought  to  feel  very  thankful  that  no  one  dear  to  you,  or 
belonging  to  you,  is  tossing  on  the  stormy  water  to-night.” 

Winnie  made  no  reply;  and,  sitting  down  to  the  instru¬ 
ment,  her  fingers  first  softly  touched  a  prelude,  and  then 
glided  into  a  rippling  fantasia,  an  old  cherished  favourite, 
learned  years  before  on  the  piano  that  was  her  old  aunt’s  gift 
— it  made  her  think  of  sitting  by  the  shore  in  Tolgooth  Bay, 
and  hearing  the  waves  around  Tregartlien  Reef,  she  said,  to 
Miss  Sarah  Whitney’s  disgust  at  the  girl’s  faithful  love  for 
her  comfortless  English  home. 

It  was  called  44  Sea  Songs,”  and  the  opening  ripple  and  rush¬ 
ing  rhythmical  beat  of  a  summer’s  sea-waves  changed  into 
the  passionate  sobbing  and  wailing  of  a  gathering  tempest. 
There  was  the  siren’s  treacherous  song  in  each  deceitful  pause 
and  lull,  and  then  the  swift-rushing  storm  broke.  The  siren’s 
plaintive  song  arose  again — it  might  have  been  the  dirge  of 
drowned  mariners,  so  softly  and  sweetly  mingled  the  plaintive 
tender  melody  with  the  ripple  of  the  waves  as  they  subsided 
to  summer  calm  once  more. 

44  Thank  you,  Miss  Caerlyon;  you  play  with  great  expres¬ 
sion,”  Lady  Mountrevor  said. 

uYes,  indeed!”  44  Charming!”  44  So  sweet!”  broke  from 
the  lips  of  Lady  Mountrevor’s  admirers. 

44  Yes,  very  sweet,  but  very  sad,”  Madam  observed,  irrita¬ 
bly.  “It  is  not  a  particularly  cheering  night  outside.  Can 
you  not  give  us  something  gayer,  my  dear?  That  is  as  mel¬ 
ancholy  as  the  4  Dead  March.’  ” 

44  Yes,  indeed— very  melancholy — so  sweet,  but  melan¬ 
choly,”  the  lady  guests  re-echoed  again. 


158  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

“The  c Dead  March  in  Saul 5  is  a  grand  piece  of  music, 
Madam,”  the  Doctor  observed,  sententiously — he  had  just 
entered  with  the  minister,  and  heard  Madam’s  concluding 
words — “a  grand  piece!  And  then  the  associations — our 
brave  soldiers,  the  muffled  drums,  the  riderless  horse — so 
touching — ahem! — a  grand  piece  of  music — never  could  hear 
it  unaffected,  Madam.” 

“Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  it  now,  Doctor?”  Madam 
said,  with  a  rather  vexed  smile.  “  I  am  sure  Miss  Caerlyon 
will  oblige  you,  it  would  just  complete  the  effect  of  that 
howling  wind  and  roaring  sea  outside.” 

“  I  should,  very  much,”  returnd  the  Doctor,  pleasingly  ob¬ 
tuse  to  Madam’s  clouded  brow  and  his  wife’s  warning  glance 
and  subdued  cough — “  it  is  very  long  since  I  heard  it — if 
Miss  Caerlyon  will  be  kind  enough.” 

“  My  dear,  Madam  does  not  like  it;  Madam  would  like 
something  gayer  this  wild  stormy  night,  really,”  his  wife 
said  aloud,  with  a  strong  emphasis  and  a  smiling  frown, 
which  betokened  an  impending  certainty  of  matrimonial 
rebuke  at  a  more  convenient  season. 

“  Oh  dear  me,  not  at  all,”  Madam  interposed,  sharply,  dis¬ 
pleased  at  the  subservience  to  her  sentimental  fancies,  as  it 
seemed.  “  If  Doctor  Lake  has  the  slightest  wish  for  that 
particular  piece  of  music,  I  can  have  no  possible  objection, 
of  course.” 

“  I  can  not  remember  it  without  the  music — it  is  so  long 
since  I  played  it,”  said  Winnie,  looking  distressed. 

“  You  will  find  it  amongst  the  old  music  on  the  lowest  tier 
of  the  study  shelves,”  said  Madam,  determinedly.  .  “  Take 
Llanyon  with  you,  Winnie,  as  the  book  is  very  large  and 
dusty.” 

Doctor  Lake  apologised,  feeling  uncomfortably  that  he 
was  trespassing  on  the  courtesy  of  his  hostess.  Mrs.  Lake 
apologised  deeply  and  profusely,  getting  red  in  the  face,  and 
darting  wrathful  glances  at  her  spouse;  but  Madam  was 
smilingly  obstinate  in  desiring  the  wished-for  music  to  be 
brought. 

Large  and  dusty  it  undeniably  was;  but  Winnie  requested 
no  help  to  discover  it,  or  carry  it  for  her;  and,  as  she  stooped 
over  it  to  examine  the  titles  on  the  time-yellowed  pages  by 
the  light  of  the  one  candle  she  carried,  her  ear  caught  the 
soft  rustle  of  a  dress,  and  she  saw,  standing  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  expiring  coals  in  the  grate,  a  tall  figure  in  snowy 
white. 


159 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

She  dropped  the  book  with  an  irrepressible  cry  of  alarm, 
and  then  saw  that  the  candle-light  shone  on  the  silvery  sheen 
of  Lady  Mountrevor’s  silken  robe,  and  glowed  in  the  liquid- 
green  hue  of  her  splendid  emerald  ornaments. 

“Did  I  startle  you?”  she  said,  with  a  slight  smile.  “  Have 
you  found  the  piece  of  music,  dear?” 

“Yes,”  answered  Winnie,  with  a  sigh,  and  a  quick  shiver; 
“  I  wish  Doctor  Lake  had  not  asked  for  it,  though — I  do  not 
want  to  play  it  to-night.” 

“  Why?  ”  Lady  Mildred  asked,  gently,  taking  both  Winnie’s 
hands  in  hers,  and  looking  into  the  dark-gray  troubled  eyes. 

She  looked  so  like  and  so  unlike  Winnie’s  last  memory  of 
her,  standing  on  that  very  spot  on  that  wintry  evening  long 
ago— with  her  bright,  persuasive  smile,  her  outstretched 
hands,  her  tall,  supple  form  in  its  imperial  perfection  of 
beauty;  but  the  gaiety  was  gone  from  the  brilliant  eyes,  the 
girlish  bloom  and  dimpled  softness  from  the  statuesque 
features — those  long,  slender  fingers  ’wore  the  badge  of  her 
changed  estate,  and  Lady  Mountrevor,  though  more  coldly 
beautiful,  had  lost  the  chief  charm  of  Mildred  Tredennick. 

She  stood  there — the  proud,  beautiful  young  lady — her 
bearing  kinder,  more  winningly  gracious  than  Winnie  could 
have  imagined  possible,  as  exhibited  towards  herself ;  but 
where  was  the  other — he  who  had  stood  there,  pleading,  in 
love  with  that  false,  fair  woman?  Where  was  Stephen  Tre¬ 
dennick?  On  the  waste  of  the  wild  ocean,  this  dark,  dread¬ 
ful  night,  whilst  Mildred  Tredennick  stood  there  smiling 
calmly,  wearing  the  wedding-ring  of  a  peer  of  the  realm  ! 

“Because,”  said  Winnie,  the  quick  tears  glistening  on  her 
dark  lashes,  and  her  emotional  face  paling  from  the  fast 
throbbing  of  her  heart,  as  she  looked  steadfastly  into  Lady 
Mountrevor’s  inscrutable  eyes — “  because  it  is  a  death  dirge, 
and  out  there,  amongst  the  wild  waves,  there  are  drowning 
sailors’  cries  as  they  go  to  their  untimely  doom — shrieking 
for  the  help  that  will  never  come,  whilst  I  play  a  funeral 
march  to  please  drawing-room  guests!  ” 

If  she  had  expected  to'see  the  proud  face  blanch  and  droop 
abashed  before  her  passionate  reproach,  she  was  mistaken. 
Lady  Mountrevor’s  features  softened  in  a  sad,  thoughtful 
look,  and  she  sighed  deeply  as  she  looked  out  into  the  murky 
darkness  of  the  driving  storm. 

“  It  is  dreadful  to  think  of,”  she  responded,  returning 
Winnie’s  steadfast  gaze;  “but,  as  Madam  said,  there  is  no 


]60  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

one  you  love  in  danger  of  the  darkness  and  the  stormy 
water.” 

“  Yes,  Lady  Mountrevor,”  Winnie  Caerlyon  corrected,  with 
her  usual  quiet,  rigid  truthfulness,  “  there  is  one  who  is  very 
dear  to  me  out  in  this  night’s  darkness  on  the  stormy  ocean.” 

“  Indeed,”  said  Lady  Mountrevor  gently;  “  then  our  grief 
and  anxiety  are  the  same.” 

“  Madam — Lady  Mountrevor — I  do  not  understand,”  Win¬ 
nie  stammered,  struggling  with  the  crimson  flush  of  shy 
alarm  that  suffused  all  her  face  and  neck. 

“  I  mean,”  explained  Lady  Mountrevor,  looking  at  the  girl 
with  a  half-sad,  half-satirical  smile,  “  that  you  have  equal 
cause  with  me  in  mourning  for  your  absent  friend.  I  grieve 
for  my  dear  cousin’s  possible  danger  amidst  the  tempest  of 
wind  and  waves,  brave  sailor  as  he  is — for  you  know,”  she 
added,  gravely,  the  piercing  light  of  her  keen  brilliant  eyes 
penetrating  into  the  depths  of  the  girl’s  true  soul,  “  Stej)hen 
Tredennick  is  at  sea  to  night.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Towards  morning  the  storm  raged  more  wildly  still.  Not 
for  years,  even  on  that  rock-bound  rugged  coast,  had  there 
been  experienced  so  fierce  and  terrible  a  tempest,  in  wiiiich 
were  commingled  pitchy  darkness,  blinding  torrents  of  rain, 
and  a  sweeping,  howling  gale  that  unroofed  houses  by  the 
score,  blew  down  farm-buildings,  uptore  the  old  forest  trees, 
and  lashed  clear  gurgling  streamlets  and  peaceful-flowing 
rivers  into  deep  headlong  floods,  their  swift  currents  all 
stained  with  the  ruin  that  they  had  wrought,  and  changed 
the  dark  hissing  waves  around  the  Black  Reef  of  Tregarthen 
into  an  awful  boiling  cauldron,  whitening  miles  of  heaving 
mountainous  waves  with  ghastly  winding-sheets  of  froth,  and 
flinging  wild  showers  of  spray  with  each  shriek  of  the  con¬ 
tending  elements  sheer  up  the  shelving  and  jagged  face  of 
the  dark  precipice  for  hundreds  of  feet. 

The  clock  had  struck  the  first  hour  of  the  new  day,  and 
sleeplessly  Winnie  Caerlyon  tossed  and  turned,  and  finally 
sat  up  partially  dressed,  tightening  her  warm  shawl  around 
her,  keeping  a  dreary  vigil  between  her  bedside  and  the  win¬ 
dow.  It  seemed  to  have  an  awful  fascination  for  her,  that 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


161 


impenetrable  darkness,  lit  up  on  the  horizon  with  the  weird 
phosphorescent  light  of  the  crested  billows,  and  filled  with 
the  shrieking  and  sobbing  of  the  dreadful  voices  of  the 
tempest. 

“  I  wish  I  could  have  gone  home,”  she  muttpred,  fever¬ 
ishly;  “  some  one  would  have  been  sure  to  be  awake 
and  stirring — father,  or  Sarah,  or  the  boys;  and  the  men 
would  have  been  out  on  the  cliffs  perhaps.  I  could  have  sat 
up  with  some  one  to  talk  to  at  the  fireside!  I  cannot  rest 
here — I  am  afraid  of  the  storm.  I  never  was  afraid  of  a 
storm  before,”  she  added  shivering  closer  to  the  black  win¬ 
dow-panes,  and  straining  her  aching  eyes,  “but  I  am  afraid 
of  this.  It  is  so  awful — it  sounds  so  full  of  destruction  and 
death.  And  oh,  the  lives — the  lost  lives!  O  Heaven  have 
mercy  on  those  struggling  with  the  merciless  sea  to-night!” 
she  cried,  sobbing  in  kneeling  prayer.  “Would  that  I  could 
do  something  to  succor  and  save!  It  is  so  dreadful  to  sit 
here  safe  and  sheltered,  and  to  know  that  the  yawning  gulfs 
of  the  great  waves  are  swallowing  brave  men  down,  strug¬ 
gling  and  crying,  and  thinking  of  their  mothers  and  wives 
and  little  children!  Oh,  poor  men — poor  women!  And  I 
can  do  nothing!” 

“They  are  all  sleeping,”  she  broke  out  presently;  the 
womanly  heart  adding  with  passionate  bitterness — “sleeping 
whilst  he  is  perhaps  in  peril.  They  do  not  distress  them¬ 
selves  to  wake  although  he  may  be  in  his  death  agony — they, 
his  nearest  and  dearest  on  earth!  ” 

But  the  one  whom  Winifred’s  jealous  l’ove  wronged  in 
thought  most  deeply  knew  as  little  unbroken  rest  as  she. 

For  another  hour  the  storm  shrieked  and  thundered,  until 
the  old  mansion,  with  its  massive  century-and-a-half  founda¬ 
tions,  trembled  like  a  living  thing  in  fear.  Winifred,  in  icy 
cold  and  darkness — for  the  last  ember  of  the  fire  had  faded 
— lay  shivering,  huddled  in  her  shawl,  watching  the  black 
casement  still,  and  longing  for  the  dawn.  Presently  a  light 
hurried  tap  came  to  her  door,  and  a  voice  called — 

“Winnie — Winnie  Caerlyon!  ” 

“Yes,  yes!  Who  is  it?  ”  she  cried,  starting  up. 

“  It  is  I — Lady  Mountrevor,”  and  the  door  opened,  and  a 
tall  dark  form  came  swiftly  in.  “Are  you  afraid — are  you 
afraid  of  the  storm,  Winnie?”  she  said,  trembling  with  agi¬ 
tation.  “I  am — I  can  not  rest!  I  thought  perhaps  that  you 
were  frightened  too.  Did  I  wake  you?  It  is  an  awful  night. 
Are  you  in  bed,  Winnie?  ” 

11 


162 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

“  Yes,  lying  on  the  bed;  I  am  half-dressed.  What  is  it, 
Lady  Mountrevor?”  Winnie  asked,  frightened  and  bewil¬ 
dered,  more  by  her  visitant’s  strange  manner  than  anything 
else. 

“  Are  you  not  cold?  Is  your  fire  out?  How  dreadful !  ” 
the  latter  exclaimed,  in  the  same  hurried,  trembling  way.  44  I 
should  go  mad  if  I  did  not  keep  lights  and  fires  blazing  on 
such  a  night  as  this!  I  suppose  I  have  a  bad  conscience, 
Winnie.  Won’t  you  come  down  to  my  rooms?  They  are 
more  comfortable.  Oh,  do  !  ”  she  called,  impatiently.  “  And 
your  window  blinds  undrawn  !  Look  at  the  darkness  !  Oh, 
do  come  down  and  keep  me  company,  child!  ”  She  caught 
Winnie’s  arm  and  almost  dragged  her  off  the  bed. 

“  Has  anything  frightened  you— has  anything  happened?” 
gasped  Winnie,  struggling  to  her  feet,  and  groping  for  her 
shoes.  44  I  am  afraid  of  the  storm;  the  thundering  of  the 
waves,  and  the  dreadful  screaming  noise  of  the  wind  coming 
in  over  the  Head,  kept  me  from  closing  my  eyes.” 

“  Dreadful !  ”  responded  Lady  Mountrevor,  wildly.  44  It 
sounds  exactly  like  death-cries!  I  fell  asleep — I  wish  I  had 
not.  I  dreamed— oh,  I  dreamed  so  awfully  !  ”  She  was 
hurrying  Winnie  along  the  corridor  as  she  spoke,  and  Win¬ 
nie  felt  her  shudder  like  one  in  an  ague.  44  What  did  you 
play  that  4  Dead  March  ’  for?  That  idiot,  to  make  such  a 
musical  selection!  It  has  been  ringing  and  beating  in  my 
ears  ever  since — ever  since,  Winnie.  I  have  been  dreaming 
of  coffins,  and  of  every  one  I  ever  knew  and  cared  for  being 
laid  in  them — every  one.  I  knew'  all  the  dead  faces.  Of 
all  nights  in  the  year  to  play  the  4  Dead  March!  ’  Heavens! 
I  shall  never  want  to  hear  it  again!  It  seems  beating  all 
around  me — the  air  is  full  of  it!” 

44  Dear  Lady  Mountrevor,”  said  Winnie,  terrified,  44  it  is 
but  your  imagination.” 

44  My  imagination!”  she  echoed.  44 1  wish  that  my  imagi¬ 
nation  were  not  quite  so  vivid.  And  it  is  so  long  ago — seven 
years  now,”  she  muttered.  44  Why  need  it  all  come  back  to 
me  to-night?  That  4  Dead  March  ’ — that  was  it;  they  did  not 
play  it  then.  No,  no — it  was  a  lonely  funeral — a  lonely 
grave  in  a  far-off  land!  Why  did  I  think  of  it?” 

The  flood  of  cheerful  radiance,  the  soft  glare  of  the  rose-4 
hued  wax  candles  from  her  warm,  pleasant  rooms,  streamed 
out  on  the  dark  lobby,  and  shone  on  her  face,  wdiich  was 
white  and  stony,  with  distended  glassy  eyes,  like  those  of  a 
sleep-walker. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  163 

“I  am  so  sorry  that  I  played  it.  I  wish  Doctor  Lake  had 
not  been  stupid  enough  to  ask  for  it.  But  for  Madam  bid¬ 
ding'  me,  I  should  have  refused,”  Winnie  said,  earnestly, 
trying  to  soothe  Lady  Mildred’s  strange  distraction.  “  Shall 
I  read  to  you,  Lady  Mouritrevor?  Perhaps  if  we  read  some 
Psalms  they  might  make  us  feel  calmer.  It  is  this  terrible 
storm  which  has  shaken  your  nerves.” 

“  Psalms!”  Lady  Mounti;evor  repeated,  with  scornful  im¬ 
patience — “I  could  not  listen  to  Psalms,  child!  Psalms,  with 
that  ringing  through  my  brain,  and  voices  that  are  silent  in 
the  grave  for  years  calling  my  name,  and  dead  faces  looking 
at  me!” 

She  flung  herself  down  before  the  bright  fire,  shrinking 
against  a  pillowed  couch,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  the 
blazing  warmth,  like  one  who  was  almost  chilled  to  death. 

“  Let  me  get  you  something—  a  glass  of  wine,  or  some  cor¬ 
dial  or  other — do,  Lady  Mountrevor — you  look  so  cold  and 
ill!”  urged  Winnie,  earnestly. 

“Just  as  you  like,  since  you  are  kind  enough  to  propose 
it,”  she  returned,  listlessly.  “  I  did  not  wish  to  wake  my 
maid — servants  are  not  always  acceptable  attendants,  and  the 
girl  is  better  asleep.  There  is  wine  in  that  little  buffet  at 
the  window,  Miss  Caerlyon — pray  take  a  little  yourself;  and 
there  is  some  sal-volatile  on  the  table  in  my  dressing-room.” 

Passing  through  the  bedchamber  to  the  dressing-room  be¬ 
yond,  Winnie  sought  for  the  bottle  of  which  Lady  Mountre¬ 
vor  had  spoken,  and,  seeing  a  small  phial  of  essence  of  cloves 
lying  beside  it  in  the  little  medicine  casket,  she  secured  it 
also,  and  turned  to  leave  the  room,  when  a  strong  light,  shin¬ 
ing  beneath  a  door  leading  to  an  adjoining  apartment,  and 
the  sound  of  voices  arrested  her  steps — a  woman’s  voice,  sub¬ 
dued,  but  full  of  distress,  mingling  soothings  and  supplica¬ 
tions,  and  a  child’s  fretful,  half-articulated  complaints. 

Impulsively  she  went  forward  and  opened  the  door.  A 
dark  skinned,  foreign-looking  woman  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor  beside  a  child’s  cot,  and  holding  up  before  her  a  large 
black-and-white  crucifix,  to  which  she  was  fervently  praying, 
mingling  her  tearful  petitions  with  caressing  words  to  the 
child,  who,  partly  awake,  was  staring  at  the  white  figure  on 
the  ebony  cross,  with  his  little  hands  folded  in  imitation  of 
his  nurse,  peevishly  questioning  her  and  crying  also. 

“ 'Mon  Dim!”  she  ejaculated,  as  Winnie  came  in,  drop¬ 
ping  the  crucifix,  and  rising  to  her  feet.  “Mademoiselle!” 

“  I  came  in  to  know  if  anything  is  the  matter.  This 


164 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MORNING. 


dreadful  storm  has  awoke  you  also,  I  perceive,”  said  Winnie, 
kindly — “  I  am  sitting  up  with  Lady  Mountrevor.” 

“Ah,  Ciel ,  riest-ce  pas  terrible ,  marri  selle?”  the  woman 
cried,  clasping  her  hands.  “  I  have  been  praying  que  le  bon 
Lieu  eut  pitie.  Le  petit  ange,he  was  what  you  call  full  of 
the  terreur;  and  we  were  praying  a  notre Seigneur  that  the 
tempest  might  soon  finish.” 

“  Pray  on,  then,”  said  Winnie,  gently.  “  Heaven  always 
hears  believing  prayer.  But  the  child — he  would  be  better 
asleep,  I  think;  or  shall  I  take  him  to  his  mother  for  a  little 
while?” 

“  Le  petit  ange”  looked  decidedly  unprepared  for  rest  or 
repose,  as  he  kicked  and  wriggled  himself  from  beneath  the 
bed-clothes,  looking  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  endure 
this  sort  of  thing  no  longer. 

“  Does  miladi  have  the  wish  for  the  child,  mam’selle?”  the 
nurse  inquired,  in  doubtful  astonishment,  trying  to  restrain 
her  “bebe her  “petit  ange ,”  from  flinging  himself  head  fore¬ 
most  on  to  the  floor. 

“Oh,  I  think  she  would;  he  would  cheer  herup,”  said  sim¬ 
ple  Winnie,  who  thought  that  the  presence  of  a  little  child 
must  be  a  panacea  for  every  distress  of  a  mother’s  breast. 

“Had  mam’selle  not  better  make  the  inquiry  of  miladi 
persisted  the  nurse.  “ Miladi  does  not  of  usual  permit  lecher 
petit  to  remain  in  her  boudoir.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Winnie,  leaving  “the  little  angel” 
stamping  and  howling  at  not  being  permitted  to  follow  her. 

“  The  child!”  cried  Lady  Mountrevor,  raising  her  head  in 
displeased  surprise.  “  Why  on  earth  should  I  trouble  myself 
with  a  cross,  screaming  child,  Miss  Caerlyon?  I  presume 
that  his  nurse  and  my  own  maid  are  sufficient  attendants  for 
the  young  gentleman  without  me.” 

“Oh,  I  asked  only  because  I  thought  he  might  cheer  you 
and  distract  nervous  brooding  feelings,”  said  Winnie,  feeling 
again  that  stunned  sensation  of  pity  and  surprise  at  the  lack 
of  maternal  tenderness  that  seemed  so  unnatural  to  her.  . 

“  You  have  unfortunately  mistaken  me  for  a  very  domestic 
character,  I  fear,  Miss  Caerlyon,”  her  ladyship  observed, 
coldly.  “  I  suppose  you  are  astonished  because  I  do  not 
delight  in  devoting  myself  to  the  amateur  nursing  of  Lord 
Mountrevor’s  heir?  Are  you  not?”  she  persisted,  as  Winnie, 
shocked  and  distressed,  remained  silent. 

“  I  thought  that  a  mother  always  liked  to  have  her  child 
with  her,”  she  said,  at  length. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


165 


“Well,  then,  in  that  case  I  am  different  from  all  other 
mothers,”  Lady  Mountrevor  retorted,  recklessly.  “  I  never 
wished  to  have  a  child — I  never  wished  to  see  him  when  he 
was  born — I  never  cared  for  him — he  never  cared  for  me — 
never  will — why  should  the  child?  He’ll  hate  me  when  he 
grows  up,  and  wish  me  dead  for  the  sake  of  my  jointure 
income.” 

“  Lady  Mountrevor,  you  cannot  mean  what  you  say  !  ” 

“  I  do  mean  it !  ”  she  cried,  passionately.  “Let  me  speak, 
or  I  shall  go  mad  to  night!  Let  me  speak:  I  can  trust  you — 
I  am  sure  I  can.  Stephen  said  that  you  were  to  be  trusted — 
poor,  dear  Stephen!  I  must  get  relief  from  all  these  madden¬ 
ing  thoughts.  I  think  I  am  delirious.  Give  me  that  draught, 
Winnie;  there  are  such  memories  surging  through  my  brain — 
such  fancies — such  wild  fancies!  Winnie  Caerlyon,  may  1  trust 
you?  ”  she  asked  catching  eagerly  at  her  hand.  “  Can  I  trust 
you  to  hear  and  see  and  be  silent — for  Stephen  Tredennick’s 
sake,  if  not  for  mine — to  be  silent  hereafter  and  always — 
never  to  say  that  you  once  saw  her  ladyship,  Mildred  Mount¬ 
revor,  transformed  into  a  mad  woman?”  she  said,  with  a 
harsh,  bitter  laugh. 

“  If  I  were  base  enough  not  to  be  silent  for  your  own  sake 
now  and  for  ever,  Lady  Mountrevor,”  answered  Winnie, 
quietly,  “  there  would  be  little  use  in  requesting  my  discre¬ 
tion  for  Captain  Tredennick’s  sake.  I  have  unfortunately 
been  the  cause  of  arousing  painful  reminiscences  and  uncom¬ 
fortable  feelings  more  than  once  during  the  past  evening,” 
she  pursued,  gently  and  soothingly,  to  the  woman  whom,  as 
she  believed,  Stephen  Tredennick  had  loved  best  on  earth — 
“  let  me  try  to  banish  them.” 

“Banish  them?  How  you  talk!  Ah,  Winnie,  you  can 
not  banish  them!”  Lady  Mildred  moaned  drearily.  “You 
could  not,  unless  you  could  give  me  the  past  over  again — 
unless  you  could  raise  the  dead  and  give  them  to  me  once 
more!” 

“  The  dead!  ”  repeated  Winnie,  sadly. 

“  The  dead,”  Lady  Mountrevor  returned — and  Winnie  saw 
the  proud  head  bowed  in  weeping — perhaps  she  was  the  only 
one  who  had  so  seen  it  since  Mildred’s  childhood — “  the  dead 
looking  at  me  from  the  white  faces  of  those  roses  over  there, 
tke  dead  presence  surrounding  me  in  their  perfume,  and  the 
burial  of  the  dead  whom  I  loved  and  lost  sounding  in  my 
ears  in  the  muffled  tramp  of  that  ‘  Dead  March’  !  ” 

“It  is  so  strange!  ”  Winnie  Caerlyon  whispered,  and  a  cold, 


166 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAEOH  MORNING. 


magnetic  thrill  of  some  impending  terror  or  surprise  chilled 
her  blood,  while  her  voice  was  almost  drowned  in  the  noises 
of  the  storm. 

“No,  it  is  not  strange,”  Lady  Mildred  said — “it  is  not 
strange  at  all.  Death  is  abroad  to-night,  Winnie,  and  the 
spirits  of  our  dead  may  be  nearer  to  us  than  we  imagine. 
You  spoke  of  it,  too.” 

“  Of  what  ?  ”  asked  Winnie,  trembling  a  little,  as  she  drew 
near  to  Lady  Mildred’s  side. 

“  Of  some  one  you  had  lost — of  a  lonely  grave  in  a  foreign 
land.  The  white  roses  reminded  you  as  well  as  me.” 

“  Ah,  yes,”  said  Winnie,  willing  to  change  the  dreary  cur¬ 
rent  of  the  unhappy  young  lady’s  thoughts  by  some  slight 
variation  in  the  conversation;  “but  then  it  was  not  one 
whom  I  had  known  and  loved,  or  who  cared  for  me.  It  was 
a  stranger’s  grave,  dear  Lady  Mildred — a  young  English 
stranger,  who  was  buried  in  an  old  cemetery  in  Winston, 
where  I  lived.  I  could  not  help  going  to  his  funeral,  for  I 
was  an  English  stranger  too.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  lost  a  friend, 
though  I  had  never  seen  him,  poor  young  fellow;  and  I  put 
on  mourning,  and  went  and  laid  a  few  sprays  of  white  roses 
on  his  coffin.  I  can  never  look  at  them  now — never  smell 
their  perfume — without  thinking  of  the  poor  young  soldier’s 
funeral  on  that  lovely  summer  morning,  and  seeing  the  white 
flowers  around  the  name-plate  as  they  laid  him  down  in  his 
lonely  grave.  Poor  young  Albert  Gardiner  !  ” 

“  What !  ”  The  word  broke  in  a  shrill,  hoarse  cry  from 
Lady  Mountrevor’s  white,  parched  lips. 

“  Albert  Gardiner — a  young  ensign  in  the  British  Army,” 
Winnie  faltered,  shrinking  backward  in  involuntary  terror; 
“did  you  know  him,  Lady  Mountrevor?” 

“  Know  him — know  him  !”  She  followed  Winnie,  clutch¬ 
ing  at  her  dress  in  frantic  eagerness.  “Tell  me — tell  me! 
Did  you  never  see  him — never  once  before  lie  died?  ”  she 
cried,  piteously.  “  Oh,  Albert  darling!  Oh,  Bertie,  my  dar¬ 
ling  boy!  Albert  dearest!  A  lonely  grave  in  a  foreign  land! 
This  was  what  was  coming;  this  was  what  I  dreamed  of  him 
— dreamed  of  him  lying  in  his  coffin!  ” 

“Who  was  he?”  Winnie  said,  overwhelmed  with  bewild¬ 
ered  fear.  “  Lady  Mountrevor,  who  was  Albert  Gardiner?  ” 

The  question  seemed  to  recall  her  to  herself.  She 
loosed  her  hold  of  Winnie  Caerlyon,  turned  away  with  a 
groan,  and,  sinking  in  a  chair,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


167 


“Who  was  lie  indeed!  ”  she  moaned.  “  Who  was  Albert 
Gardiner  that  Lord  Mountrevor’s  wife  should  mourn  him?” 

“Some  one  you  loved?”  whispered  Winnie  Caerlyon, 
marvelling  if  indeed  it  could  be  so. 

“Some  one!”  Lady  Mountrevor  cried,  rising  from  her 
chair  and  pacing  the  room  like  a  caged  cretaure.  “  The  only 
living  creature  I  ever  loved — ever  could  love — ever  will 
love!”  the  unhappy  woman  said,  raging  in  fierce  rebellion 
over  the  bereavement.  “They  took  him  from  me;  they  per¬ 
secuted  us  until  they  got  us  asunder — until  they  drove  him 
out  of  the  country,  and  hurried  me  away  into  seclusion — we 
who  loved  each  other  so — who  would  have  been  so  faithful 
to  each  other,  and  so  happy  if  they  had  let  us — they — the 
worldly,  smiling,  selfish  schemers — my  father  and  mother 
and  Madam  Vivian!  We  loved  each  other  from  the  time 
that  we  were  a  little  boy  and  girl,  Winnie  Caerlyon,”  she 
went  on,  passionate  sobs  shaking  her  utterance;  “  we  meant 
to  love  each  other  always — to  marry  as  soon  as  I  was  of  age; 
and  Bertie  used  to  talk  to  me  of  our  home  in  some  far-off 
Indian  bungalow,  or  some,  fort  in  a  distant  land — we  two 
together;  and  we  should  have  been  so  happy!  They  did 
their  best  to  make  me  forget  him — Madam  Vivian  most  of 
all.  She  is  a  hard  worldly  woman,  Winnie  Caerlyon,  and 
you  know  it  as  well  as  I,  though  you  have  borne  with  her  so 
well  and  patiently.  They  did  their  best,  but  it  was  useless 
—useless;  if  they  had  been  endeavouring  ever  since,  they 
could  not  have  succeeded — never — never,  but  for  Death 
helping  them!  I  never  could  be  false  to  him,  he  never  could 
have  been  false  to  me  in  life,  but  Death  stepped  in  to  part 
Bertie  Gardiner  and  me  for  ever,  much  to  my  dear  relatives’ 
relief  !  Much  to  their  relief,”  she  repeated,  after  a  pause, 
with  a  slow  concentrated  bitterness — “  though  Madam  Vivian 
announced  ‘  the  sad  news,’  as  she  called  it,  in  so  smoothly 
condoling  a  voice  and  manner — much  as  she  announced  the 
death  of  my  god  mother,  who  bequeathed  me  her  fortune. 
She  entreated  of  me  not  to  say  too  much,  I  remember,  and 
proposed  next  day  that  we  should  drive  to  the  Longchamps 
race- course  for  a  change  of  scene  to  cheer  and  amuse  me.” 

“  Oh,  dear  Lady  Mildred,  she  did  not  mean  to  slight  your 
grief.  Madam  did  not  understand  feelings  like  yours.  Mad¬ 
am  never  loved  and  lost  as  you  did,”  said  Winnie,  quite  for¬ 
getting,  in  the  simplicity  of  her  grief,  that  it  was  a  peeress  of 
the  realm  she  was  embracing  and  crying  over  so  heartily. 

“  You  would  excuse  her  without  ceasing,  Winnie  Caerlyon. 


168 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


Why,  I  know  not — unless  it  is  because  of  your  long-suffering 
amiability,”  Lady  Mildred  remarked,  harshly  scornful.  “Ir¬ 
respective  of  other  wrongs,  Madam  Vivian  has  done  me  one 
that  I  can  neither  forgive  nor  forget.” 

“What  was  it?  ”  Winnie  asked,  timidly.  ' 

The  stormy  shrieking  of  the  wind  had  paused  for  a  time, 
spent  and  breathless  from  its  rage,  but  the  thundering  roar 
and  beat  of  the  wild  surges  sounded  fearfully  loud  and  near 
in  the  ominous  lull;  and  in  the  lull  came  a  faint,  distant 
booming  sound. 

“  The  wrong  of  compelling  me  to  sacrifice  and  trample 
upon  my  feelings  in  spite  of  every  instinct  of  my  nature, 
which  shrank  from  the  trial,”  said  Lady  Mountrevor,  with 
gloomy  hopelessness— “  the  wrong  of  compelling  me  by  fear 
of  her  displeasure,  the  force  of  her  authority,  the  dread  of  her 
ridicule  on  a  night — a  summer  night- — seA  en  years  ago,  Win¬ 
nie  Caerlyon — to  go  to  a  ball  with  her  with  a  presentiment 
of  coming  sorrow  like  a  leaden  weight  on  my  girlish  heart, 
with  a  fevered  brain,  a  weary,  spiritless  frame,  my  eyes 
burning  from  weeping — the  wrong  of  compelling  me  to 
dress,  and  adorn,  bedeck,  bejewel  myself,  banish  all  traces 
of  the  load  of  apprehension  and  pain  t^at  was  resting  on 
me,  simulate  gaiety  and  high  spirits,  and  go  and  mingle 
amongst  heartless  people  of  whom  I  hated  one  half  and 
despised  nearly  all  the  rest — to  dance,  and  smile,  and 
flirt,  and  attract — to  exhibit  myself,  in  a  word,  for  the 
securing  more  surely  the  rich  prize  my  would-be  proprie¬ 
tor  offered  in  exchange  for  me — all  to  gratify  her  love 
of  pomp  and  wealth  and  vanity — she,  the  vain,  selfish  woman, 
who  never  experienced  one  throb  of  real  love!  She  made 
me  go  to  the  last  ball  of  the  season;  she  chaperoned  me, 
and  paraded  me,  and  showed  me  off — as  surely  as  ever  a 
slave  merchant  did  his  Circassians  and  Georgians  before  the 
eyes  of  rich  pashas!  I  danced  with  Lord  Henry  Mountrevor 
by  Madam  Vivian’s  express  desire;  I  promenaded  the  con¬ 
servatory  with  him;  I  sat  with  him  behind  bowers  of  orange- 
trees  in  blossom;  with  smiles  I  listened  to  his  protestations 
of  admiration;  I  gave  him  every  artful  encouragement  that 
a  ball-room  coquette  uses  to  capture  a  golden  prize  in  matri¬ 
mony — and  I  gave  him  a  flower  from  my  bouquet  at  parting, 
I  remember — a  rose — a  white  rose — and  he  kissed  it,  and 
placed  it  in  his  coat,  to  exhibit  its  withered  remains  to  me 
for  a  week  after!  Winnie,  do  you  know  what  day  it  was — 
the  day  that  I  danced  out  the  close  of  the  last  ball  of  the 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  169 

season  with  Lord  Mountrevor?  It  was  the  twenty  ninth  of 
July,  eighteen  hundred  and - 

“  The  day — the  day  that - ”  broke  from  Winnie’s  lips  in¬ 

voluntarily,  in  the  shock  of  the  moment. 

“  The  day — the  morning — the  hour  when  Albert  Gardiner 
lay  dying  amongst  strangers  in  a  strange  land,”  Lady* Mil¬ 
dred  said,  slowly;  “  and  when  I  discovered  the  truth  after¬ 
wards,  bitterly  as  I  hated  myself,  there  wTere  two  others  whom 
I  hated  still  worse — Madam  Vivian  and  Lord  Henry  Mount¬ 
revor.  I  hated  every  one  in  the  world  but  my  cousin  Stephen 
— my  poor,  dear,  old,  kind-hearted  Stephen — who  came  with 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  calling  me  his  ‘  poor  be¬ 
reaved,  desolate  little  Millie’!  Ilis  sympathy  saved  me  from 
going  mad  or  acting  foolishly.” 

“  Oh,  Lady  Mildred,  dear!  ”  Winnie  sobbed,  in  her  gener¬ 
ous  sympathy  feeling  as  if  every  grief  of  her  own  innocent, 
loving  life  were  as  nothing  compared  to  the  stormy  vindictive 
misery  of  this  proud,  noble,  misguided  nature.  “But Heaven 
helped  you  to  forgive  yourself  and  every  one  else  for  that 
unintentional  wrong — if  wrong  it  could  be  called,  when  no 
one  meant  cruelly  to  you,  although  it  was  so  cruel;  and  to¬ 
wards  Lord  Mountrevor,  of  course,  as  you  married  him  after¬ 
wards,  you  must  have  felt  differently.” 

“Miss  Caerlyon,”  said  Lady  Mildred,  briefly,  “as  you  say, 
I  became  the  wife  of  Lord  Mountrevor  afterwards,  and  the 
mother  of  his  heir.  Now,  if  you  please,  we  will  change  the 
subject.  This  storm  has  affected  me  strangely,  terrified  me 
out  of  my  self-possession  and  reticence;  but  I  repose  perfect 
confidence  in  your  womanly  honour  and  delicacy  of  feeling.” 

“  Of  course  you  may,”  responded  Winnie,  sorrowfully, 
fearing  that  she  had  offended  her. 

“  I  know  I  may,”  said  Lady  Mountrevor,  quietly;  and  then, 
as  Winnie  moved  from  her  side  to  the  window  to  recommence 
her  anxious  watching  and  listening,  she  put  her  arm  around 
her,  drew  her  towards  her,  and  kissed  her  with  a  gentle  cor¬ 
diality  that  made  Winnie’s  heart  beat  fast  with  pleasure. 

“  I  think  one  could  make  a  friend  of  a  woman  like  you,” 
the  wealthy  peeress  said,  with  thoughtful  sadness;  “be  that 
as  it  may,  you  can  never  be  but  an  object  of  interest  and 
liking  to  me,  Winnie;  at  all  events — whatever  I  am  to  you — 
after  what  you  told  me  this  night.”  Hex; voice  sank  low  and 
trembled  audibly  as  she  struggled  passionately  for  control  of 
her  feelings.  “  I  can  never  forget  it,  Winnie — I  never  shall; 
and  I  may  be  able  yet,”  she  whispered,  laying  her  cheek  to 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. ' 


170 

Winnie’s,  and  wetting  it  with  her  tears,  “to  give  you  some 
days  of  happiness — some  years  of  happiness,  I  hope — for  the 
hours  of  regret  and  the  tears  you  ‘gave  to — his — Albert 
Gardiner’s  memory.”- 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief  for  several  min¬ 
utes',  and  in  the  pause  there  again  came  across  the  monoto¬ 
nous  roaring  of  the  waters  the  short,  sharply-defined  booming 
sound.  A  terrible  thought  arose  in  Winnie’s  heart.  She 
would  fain  have  rushed  to  open  doors  or  windows  and 
braved  the  storm,  to  look  or  listen  for  the  news  that  she 
dreaded;  but  she  was  unwilling  to  disturb  Lady  Mountrevor 
at  the  moment. 

“  Dear  Winnie,”  Lady  Mildred  said,  looking  up  with  a 
calmer  face,  and  a  little  of  Mildred  Tredennick’s  old  caress¬ 
ing  smile  gleaming  from  her  tear-wet  eyes,  “  I  have  talked 
too  much  of  myself,  my  life,  my  past.  It  is  all  over,  all  its 
brightness  is  gone,  all  its  hopes  were  buried  long  ago.  Now 
for  a  change,  dear  Winnie  Caerlyon,  I  shall  talk  of  the  future 
— your  future,  my  future,  as  far  as  I  can  hope  for  one — the 
future  when  Stephen  Tredennick  comes  home,  and — Hark! 
what  is  that?” 

Again  across  the  thundering  of  the  surges  came  the  sharp 
booming  sound. 

“  I  have  heard  it  twice  before,”  Winnie  cried,  clasping  her 
hands.  “  Oh,  Lady  Mildred,  it  is  a  wreck!  I  was  afraid  of 
this  all  night. 

“  A  wreck,”  Lady  Mountrevor  echoed,  awe-struck — “  a 
wreck  near  us  here?  Oh,  what  can  we  do?  What  can  we 
do  to  help  them?” 

“Nothing,”  said  Winnie,  white  with  despair.  “No  vessel 
can  hold  oat  for  an  hour  if  she  once  gets  near  Tregarthen 
Bay.  I  often  heard  father  say  that  no  boat  can  get  alongside. 
Sailors  have  no  chance  of  life  unless  they  are  washed  ashore 
on  spars.  We  can  do  nothing  but  stand  to  see  them  die. 
There  is  the  gun  again!  Oh,  poor  souls!  ” 

“Let  us  wake  up  the  servants — let  us  go  out  and  see— offer 
rewards  —  do  something!  ”  Lady  Mountrevor  broke  out, 
energetically. 

The  sudden  excitement  of  her  quick  sympathies  was  as  a 
counter-irritant,  relieving  and  strengthening  her  unstrung 
fevered  nerves.  ; 

“They  are  awake,  I  think,”  Winnie  said,  listening — “I 
hear  footsteps  on  the  stairs.” 

The  footsteps  came  nearer,  and  a  tremulous  knock  sounded 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


171 


at  the  outer  door  of  Lady  Mildred’s  rooms.  Presently  old 
Llanyon’s  white  head  appeared  against  the  dark  background 
of  velvet  drapery. 

“  My  la'dy,  my  lady,”  he  cried,  agitatedly,  “  I  thought  it 
right  to  come  and  tell  you,  my  lady,  that  there’s  a  large  ship 
— a  merchantman,  they  think — ashore  on  the  Black  Reef  of 
Tregarthen!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

The  first  struggling  light  of  the  gray  dawn  was  dimly  reveal¬ 
ing  through  the  cold  mists  of  the  wild  March  morning  the 
dreary  expanse  of  the  froth-whitened  tossing  water,  the  jagged 
glittering  points  of  the  Black  Reef  peering  above  the  raging 
waves;  but  most  noticeably  of  all,  to  the  eyes  of  the  score  or 
two  of  watchers  on  the  cliffs,  did  the  faint  gray  haze  cling 
around  that  dark  mass  with  the  torn  remnants  of  sails  and 
cordage  beating  idly  and  wildly  about,  and  the  splintered 
spars  and  masts  lying  helplessly  with  their  heads  submerged 
under  the  cruel  wTaves  that  leaped  and  dashed  over  them  in 
fierce  mockery. 

Whence  she  had  come,  or  whither  she  was  bound,  no  one 
knew;  but  there,  on  the  Black  Reef,  beneath  the  frowning 
precipice  of  Tregarthen  Head,  on  the  wild  Cornish  coast,  had 
the  good  ship  found  her  doom. 

“  A  hemmegrant  ship  her  be,  sir;  an’  ’bout  fifteen  hundred 
tons,  I  shud  saay,”  one  of  the  Coastguard  men  remarked  to 
his  officer. 

“  She’s  nothen  o’  the  sort,  John  Richards,”  the  boatswain 
retorted — unot  by  her  build,  as  I  can  make  out.  ’Tes  hard 
to  say,”  he  added  to  Lieutenant  Caerlyon;  “  she  be  goin’  to 
pieces  hevery  mennit.” 

“  Has  none  of  the  cargo  come  ashore?  ”  the  officer  asked. 

“Not  much,  sir,  except  bar’ls,  and  chests  of  tay,  and  pieces 
of  staves.” 

“An’  not  a  soul  left  aboard  o’  her,”  John  Richards  put  in. 

“  Ye’r  a-talkin’  of  what  ’e  don’t  know  nothen  of,”  the  boat¬ 
swain  said  again,  more  sharply;  “  ef  ’e’ve  got  heyes,  man, 
and  a  glass,  what  kind  o’  use  do  ’e  put  ’em  to?  I  see  three 
men,  not  ten  mennits  ago,  come  in  through  the  passage 
atween  them  flat  rocks  forrard  theer,  houldin’  on  to  a  spar, 
poor  fellows!  They  must  be  a’most  dead.” 


172 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  Where  have  they  got  to,  then?”  Lieutenant  Caerlyon 
asked.  “  It  will  be  low  tide  in  three  hours  ;  but  there’s  not 
a  shelf  of  rock  above  water  now;  and  even  at  low  water  the 
rocks  will  be  all  covered  in  this  storm,  and  no  one  can  get  to 
them.  I  am  afraid,  poor  fellows,  it’s  a  black  look-out  from 
every  point  for  them.” 

“  Here  be  wimmin  cornin’!  What  do  they  want  a-comin’ 
in  such  a  place?”  the  Coastguard  boatswain,  a  bachelor  of 
some  forty-eight  years’  standing,  remarked,  crossly — the 
gefitler  sex,  in  Mr.  Ned  Boscawen’s  opinion,  having  no 
earthly  right  to  appear  in  any  place  where  their  presence  was 
not  directly  required.  “Cornin’  up  here,  weth  the  wind 
biowin’  their  gowns  an’  shawls  like  balloons — it’ll  take  ’em  off 
their  feet  afore  they  knows  wheer  they  are!  ” 

Determined  to  give  the  adventurous  females  a  smart  rebuff 
if  they  ventured  u  to  come  clackin’  weth  their  questions,”  as 
he  phrased  it,  to  him,  Mr.  Boscawen  deigned  to  bestow  no 
further  notice  on  the  two  darkly-robed  advancing  figures. 
Lieutenant  Caerlyon,  steadying  his  glass  against  a  field-hedge 
skirting  the  last  cultivated  stretch  of  land  on  the  Head,  heard 
nothing,  saw  nothing  but  the  echoing  roar  t)f  the  thunder  of 
the  waves  and  the  hissing  sheets  of  flying  spray,  with  that  black 
dismantled  heap  lying  so  forlornly  on  her  side,  and  the  sharp 
black  rocks  beginning  to  show  all  around  her  in  the  ebbing 
tide. 

“  It’ll  carry  out  everything  afloat  belonging  to  her,  too,” 
he  said,  half  aloud;  “we  can’t  even  tell  what  cargo  she  had.” 

Suddenly  he  perceived  Mr.  Boscawen  staring  amazedly  at 
something  and  touching  his  cap. 

Wheeling  round  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon 
of  Mr.  Boscawen’s  politeness,  Lieutenant  Caerlyon  nearly 
dropped  his  glass  at  seeing  his  daughter  Winnie’s  pale  face 
at  his  elbow,  and,  leaning  on  her  arm,  Lady  Mountrevor, 
wrapped  in  a  mackintosh  cloak. 

“Your  ladyship  is  very  brave  to  come  out  here  on  such  a 
morning,  and  at  such  an  hour,”  he  remarked,  involuntarily, 
through  sheer  amazement,  after  replying  to  her  brief  but 
courteous  greeting. 

“Your  daughter  was  not  afraid  to  come — begged  to  be 
allowed  to  come — why  should  I  fear,  Lieutenant  Caerlyon?” 
her  ladyship  said,  quietly. 

“  Oh — but — Winnie,”  he  said,  coughing  a  little  deprecate 
ingly  and  smiling — “  Winnie’s  more  used  to  early  hours  and 
rough  weather  than  you  are,  Lady  Mountrevor.  Winnie’s 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING,  173 

been  out  on  the  cliffs  with  me  years  ago,  when  she  was  a 
little  girl — at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning  sometimes.” 

“  Can  no  one  tell  anything  about  the  unfortunate  vessel, 
Mr.  Caerlyon?”  Lady  Mountrevor  asked,  rather  impatiently. 
“  I  came  out  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  use.  Where  are  the 
poor  people?  ” 

“  A  few  men  were  seen  getting  in  by  spars  and  such 
things  some  time  since,  my  lady,”  he  replied,  “  but  we  can 
discover  nothing  of  them — nor  can  we  reach  them,  I  fear, 
even  at  low  water.” 

“  They  must  be  under  the  Head,  father!  ”  Winnie  cried, 
her  white  face  reddening  with  excitement. 

“  Yes,  but  where,  my  dear?  Half  drowned  sailors  could 
hardly  cling  to  the  face  of  the  cliff,”  her  father  returned. 
“  As  soon  as  the  tide  turns,  if  our  boat  can  be  launched,  we’ll 
try  and  get  out  a  bit  to  see  where  they  are.” 

“  Couldn’t,  sir — couldn’t  be  done  these  twenty-four  hours,” 
Ned  Boscawen  interposed,  gruffly,  shutting  up  his  glass  with 
a  snap. 

“  I  doubt  if  it  could,”  said  the  Lieutenant,  sadly,  shaking 
his  head;  “I  fear,  madam,  the  poor  fellows  have  no  chance.” 

“  Must  they  be  left  to  die,  then?  ”  Lady  Mountrevor  asked, 
shuddering.  “  Mr.  Caerlyon,  I  wish  to  offer  rewards,  to  en¬ 
courage  the  men  to  try  to  save  them.  I  will  give  fifty  pounds 
to  the  first  boat’s  crew  of  your  men  that  goes  out  to  try  to 
rescue  them — a  hundred  pounds  if  they  are  successful!” 

“  Lady  Mountrevor,”  he  said  gravely,  “  you  are  very  kind, 
but  a  thousand  pounds  would  not  tempt  a  man  to  fling  away 
his  life — as  it  would  be  flung  away  in  any  attempt  to  man  a 
boat  through  such  a  sea  as  that  for  the  next  t>venty-f our  hours; 
and  long  before  that  time  those  poor  fellows  must  be  washed 
away,  or  have  died  from  cold  and  exposure,  if  they  are  not 
dead  already.” 

“  Father,  they  might  hold  on  to  those  flat  rocks — they  are 
at  high-water  mark,  you  know,”  Winnie  urged,  “  and  they  are 
a  little  sheltered  from  the  beat  of  the  waves,  too.” 

“  They  may  hold  on,  Winnie,”  her  father  replied,  shaking 
his  head;  “but  they  can’t  climb  up.  We  can’t  get  a  rope 
down,  we  can’t  reach  them  by  a  boat,  and  they  must  perish, 
child,  as  soon  as  the  tide  rises  again.” 

“Would  no  one  volunteer  to  go  over  the  face  of  the  cliff 
with  a  rope,  Mr.  Caerlyon?”  inquired  Lady  Mountrevor, 
eagerly.  “  If  you  can  discover  that  there  are  any  survivors 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


174 

beneath,  I  will  give  a  hundred  pounds  to  the  man  that  goes 
down  to  them.” 

Lieutenant  Caerlyon  bowed. 

“I  will  tell  them  what  you  say,  Lady  Mountrevor,  but  I 
am  afraid  the  attempt  will  be  useless,  even  if  you  can  get 
them  to  make  it.  Tregarthen  Head  projects  considerably, 
and  below  there  is  no  foothold  for  anything  but  a  gull,  except 
at  very  low  tide".” 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards  he  came  back. 

“Madam,”  he  said,  “there  is  not  a  man  amongst  them 
Would  attempt  it  until  the  sea-  goes  down;  and  it  can  not  be 
ascertained  that  there  are  any  survivors.” 

“  But  there  may  be  survivors  for  all  that,  Winnie,”  Lady 
Mountrevor  persisted,  as  they  turned  away  together.  “  I 
shall  not  give  up  hoping — I  shall  make  preparations  to  receive 
them,  poor  creatures!  Oh,  if  we  could  save  the  lives  of  even 
one  or  two  out  of  all  belonging  to  that  great  vessel!  ” 

Perhaps  this  was  the  first  thoroughly  unselfish  work  that 
Mildred,  Lady  Mountrevor,  had  found  to  do  in  her  life,  or 
rather  that  she  had  tried  to  do,  and  all  that  was  best  and 
noblest  in  her  nature  expanded  beneath  its  influence.  Hope¬ 
ful  light  shone  pleasantly  in  her  eyes,  hopeful  colour  glowed 
pleasantly  in  her  cheeks,  as  she  eagerly  planned  for  the  re¬ 
covery,  the  consoling,  comforting,  and  healing  of  a  few  poor 
wretched  half-dead  sailors.  In  her  enthusiasm,  in  the  pleasant 
warmth  of  benevolence,  melting  away  the  ice  at  her  heart, 
she  could  have  washed  and  clothed  and  fed  with  her  own 
hands  the  wretchedest,  most  tattered,  torn,  wounded  human 
creature  which  could  be  rescued  from  the  waves,  and  rejoiced 
over  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  dear  friend. 

“Where  are  you  going,  Lady  Mountrevor?”  Winnie  asked, 
pausing.  “Will  you  let  me  stay  with  my  father?  I  would 
rather  stay  here  to  see  if  anything  can  be  done,”  she  pleaded. 
“  Please  allow  me.  I  cannot  stay  indoors.  I  cannot  eat  or 
drink.  Let  me  stay  here  for  a  few  hours,  at  least.” 

“You  shall  stay  all  day  if  you  wish,  and  I  will  stay  also,” 
Lady  Mountrevor  rejoined,  quickly,  “  but  I  must  go  and  give 
some  orders  first  at  Tregarthen  House.” 

“  Orders  at  Tregarthen?”  Winnie  repeated,  half  mechan¬ 
ically. 

Lady  Mountrevor  and  Winnie  were  walking  side  by  side 
up  Mennacarthen  Lane — just  as  Winnie  had  walked  here 
eight  years  ago,  in  the  bleak  dawning  of  a  wild  March 
morning,  by  Stephen  Tredennick’s  side — just  as  she  was 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


175 


walking  with  his  proud,  beautiful  cousin  now,  she  who  had 
been  haughty  Mildred  Tredennick  then;  and  he — where  was 
he  now? 

“  I  am  going  to  have  Tregarthen  House  prepared  to  receive 
those  poor  people,  if  they  can  be  rescued,”  saidLady  Mount- 
revor,  hurrying  faster.  “  Come,  Winnie;  we  will  order 
Mary  Truscott  and  her  old  aunt  to  have  blazing  fires  and 
plenty  of  hot  water  and  aired  beds  and  blankets.  I  know 
Stephen  would  wish  it  to  be  so.” 

“ But — but  he  is  not  come  home!  ”  Winnie  observed,  star¬ 
ing  a  little  wildly,  as  they  entered  the  house. 

“  Stephen  Tredennick  come  home!  Certainly  not!  What 
are  you  thinking  of?  ”  asked  Lady  Mildred,  in  surprise. 
“  You  are  not  well,  Winnie,  after  your  sleepless,  agitated 
night — poor  child,  your  face  is  quite  drawn  and  ghastly. 
Try  not  to  think  of  the  wreck  for  a  few  minutes,  clear,  and 
sit  down  by  the  fire  and  rest,  and  look  at  all  the  improve¬ 
ments  I  have  be<?n  making.” 

“  Yes,  beautiful!  You  have  made  it  look  as  if  it  had  been 
always  lived  in  and  taken  care  of — everything  so  fresh  and 
neat,”  Winnie  said,  languidly. 

She  sat  down,  weary  and  shivering,  in  a  large  chair,  in  the 
oak  paneled  dining-room,  its  woodwork,  all  newly  polished, 
reflecting  like  mirrors  in  a  thousand  flashes  of  yellow  light 
the  leaping  flame  of  the  newly-kindled  wood-fire,  the  rich 
ruddy  glow  of  the  velvety  crimson  and  purple  of  the  carpets 
and  curtains;  the  tall  yellow  wax  candles  in  the  bronze 
candelabra,  the  white  statuettes  on  brackets  on  either  pier 
between  the  three  windows,  the  books  in  their  ivory  tray- 
nay,  even  the  three  tall  slender  jardinieres  of  purple  majolica- 
ware,  with  their  blooming  clusters  of  white  and  purple  hya¬ 
cinths,  each  making  the  air  heavy  with  fragrance — a  beauti¬ 
ful,  welcoming  home  like  room,  looking,  as  Winnie  had  said, 
as  if  it  had  been  always  lived  in  and  taken  care  of,  with  not  an 
item  in  its  home  luxuries  overlooked  by  the  sympathetic 
taste,  the  thoughtful  mind,  that  had  designed  and  perfected 
its  furniture  and  accessories. 

“Well,  Winnie,  what  do  you  think  of  it?”  asked  Lady 
Mildred,  coming  back  to  the  dining-room.  “You  must  come 
all  through  the  house  with  me  and  look  at  it,  and  then  Mary 
Truscott  will  give  us  some  breakfast.  She  makes  coffee  and 
griddle-cakes  to  perfection,  as  I  have  often  proved  on  cold 
days  when  I  was  here  looking  after  the  workmen,”  she 
said  to  blushing,  curtseying  Mary,  who  considered  haughty 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOKNING. 


176 

Lady  Mountrevor  “the  sweetest  creecher  of  a  lady — grand 
as  she  is — that  yon  could  find  in  England.” 

Like  one  in  a  dream  Winnie  followed  Lady  Mildred  from 
room  to  room,  as  she  drew  back  curtains,  pulled  up  blinds, 
and  exhibited  the  chintz  and  damask  hangings,  cheval  glasses, 
French  bedsteads,  bath  rooms,  carpeted  corridors  and  stair¬ 
cases  of  polished  oak,  the  massive  hall  lamps,  the  statues, 
pictures,  flowers,  everything  fresh,  and  furnished,  and  cleaned, 
and  polished,  painted,  papered,  varnished,  stained,  gilded,  to 
the  acme  of  the  complete  luxurious  neatness  of  a  w^ell- 
appointed  English  old  country  house — nothing  glaringly  new 
or  bright,  everything  warm,  cosy,  comfortable,  inviting,  need¬ 
ing  only  the  additional  brightness  of  living  presences  by 
the  bright  hearths  and  the  glad  blazing  fires. 

“  This  is  just  as  Stephen  would  like  to  see  it,  I  think.  He 
will  be  so  pleased  with  the  old  house,”  said  Lady  Mildred, 
cheerfully.  “  Only  some  outbuildings  need  repair  now,  and 
a  new  conservatory  has  to  be  finished;  otherwise  it  is  quite 
ready  for  its  master,  Winnie.” 

The  girl  did  not  offer  a  word;  she  was  looking  from  the 
bay-window  of  the  drawing-room  across  at  the  Head,  and  the 
stretch  of  boisterous  foam-flecked  water,  dimly  seen  beyond 
the  clouds  of  mist  above  the  crashing  breakers,  and  she 
shuddered  violently. 

“When  may  I  go  back  to  the  wreck,  Lady  Mountrevor?” 

“  As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  breakfast — not  before,” 
replied  Lady  Mildred,  decisively.  “  How  you  shiver,  you  poor 
little  thing!”  In  the  strength  of  her  own  splendid^Aysq^e, 
imperially  moulded,  morally  and  physically,  as  she  was,  the 
young  peeress  looked  down  pityingly  on  the  slender,  frail, 
girlish  form  of  the  woman  who  was  her  junior  in  years  as  if 
she  had  been  a  weakly  child.  “You  are  not  equal  to  much 
exertion,  Winnie,  I  see  that;  your  sleepless  night  has  made 
you  quite  ill.  I  am  stronger,  I  suppose,”  she  added,  her 
face  clouding  wearily  as  the  memory  of  what  that  sleepless 
night  had  brought  to  her  knowledge  arose  freshly  on  her  mind. 

But  she  did  not  remember  that  to  strong,  fiery,  passionate 
natures  like  hers,  that  rebel  wildly  against  the  grief  which  is 
yet  crushing  their  very  soul,  it  is  possible  to  fling  aside  for  a 
time  the  very  memory  of  the  weary  burden  that  the  meek 
ones  gird  around  them  to  bear  patiently,  gently,  uncomplain¬ 
ingly  to  the  grave. 

Besides,  it  was  no  new  grief  that  she  had  learned;  and 
gentle  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  touch  had  been  only  soothing  to 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  177 

the  old,  hidden  wound  throbbing  so  feverishly  beneath  Lady 
Mountrevor’s  cold,  statuesque  beauty. 

“  You  have  not  seen  half  my  improvements;  you  can  have 
no  idea  of  the  state  that  this  old  house  was  in  when  I  took  it 
in  hand,”  she  went  on,  kindly  intent  on  rousing  Winnie  from 
what  she  considered  to  be  merely  nervous  depression,  as  she 
poured  out  a  fragrant  cup  of  hot  coffee  and  buttered  the 
crisp,  hot  griddle-cakes,  at  the  other  side  of  the  little  oval 
table  which  she  had  wheeled  up  to  Winnie’s  chair.  “  Don’t 
you  think  this  oblong  table  perfection  for  a  tete-a-tete  break¬ 
fast?”  her  ladyship  pursued,  smiling,  as  she  ladled  the  thick, 
golden,  scalded  cream  into  Winnie’s  cup.  “  I  do;  I  chose  it 
in  Plymouth  purposely  for  cousin  Stephen.” 

“  And  yourself,  I  suppose?  ”  Winnie  said,  smiling  faintly. 

“  Myself !  ”  Lady  Mildred  exclaimed,  raising  her  brows. 
“  I  could  scarcely  expect  to  enjoy  tete-a-tete  breakfasts  with 
Captain  Tredennick  for  the  term  of  my  natural  life,  Miss 
Caerlyon.  You  forget  that  that  is  the  privileged  enjoyment 
of  Lord  Henry  Mountrevor.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon,”  said  Winnie,  colouring  in  some  dis¬ 
tress,  both  at  the  mistake  and  the  hostile  flush  and  tone  of 
voice  of  Lord  Mountrevor’s  young  wife. 

“  I  bought  it  for  the  same  people  that  I  bought  those  two 
velvet  chairs  for,”  Lady  Mildred  went  on,  forcing  her  cheer¬ 
ful  mood  back  again.  “  This  is  a  tete-a-tete  service — this 
Sevres;  I  got  it  in  my  pet  bric-a-brac  shop  in  Paris.  I  got 
it  for  Stephen  and  his  chatelaine — and  1  mean  to  tell  him  so.” 

^  His — his - ”  stammered  Winnie,  bewildered  for  a 

moment.  “  Oh,  I  know!  I  did  not - ” 

“  His  chatelaine — wife — lady — Tregarthen’s  mistress — 
whoever  she  may  be,”  said  Lady  Mildred,  laughing.  “  Don’t 
you  think  she  ought  to  find  a  happy  home  here,  Winnie? 
Don’t  you  think  life  could  flow  on  very  peacefully  here,  with 
a  woman  whom  Stephen  Tredennick  loved,  and  who  loved 
him?” 

“  It  could  not  flow  on  otherwise,”  Winnie  replied,  her 
voice  shaking  a  little. 

A  long  pause  ensued.  Secretly  Lady  Mildred  waited  for 
Winnie  to  speak;  secretly  Winnie  longed  to  speak,  but 
dared  not. 

“You  must  have  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  have  every¬ 
thing  restored  and  the  house  so  perfectly  appointed,”  the  lat¬ 
ter  remarked,  taking  refuge  at  length  in  commonplaces.  u  I 

12 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


178 

almost  feared  that  Tregarthen  House  would  have  fallen  into 
ruins  before  this,  when  I  was  in  America.” 

“You  remembered  Tregarthen  House  then?”  questioned 
Lady  Mildred,  with  a  rather  curious  inflexion  in  her  voice. 
u  It  was  a  pleasure — the  greatest  pleasure  I  have  known  for 
years,  Winnie— to  be  able  to  make  my  dear  cousin  Stephen 
some  return  for  his  years  of  kindness — brotherly,  patient 
kindness  to  me.” 

“  Kindness?  ”  Winnie  broke  out,  looking  up  with  a  fevered 
flash  of  light  and  colour  coming  to  her  eyes  and  cheeks.  “  I 
thought  I  had  been  told  years  ago  that - ” 

“  That  what  ?  ” 

“  That  Stephen  Tredennick - I  beg  your  pardon  again; 

it  does  not  matter,  and  is  no  concern  of  mine.”  She  inter¬ 
rupted  herself  brusquely,  and,  locking  her  nervous,  twitching 
hands  with  convulsive  tightness  in  her  lap,  she  turned  away 
her  face,  watching  Tregarthen  Head  and  its  encircling  awful 
mists  of  ocean  spray. 

“I  think,  Winnie,”  said  Lady  Mildred,  with  quiet  reproach, 
“  you  need  not  fear  to  tell  me  any  thought  of  yours,  no  mat¬ 
ter  how  strange  or  incorrect/’  she  added,  meaningly. 

“It  does  not  matter — indeed  it  does  not  matter — it  is  of  no 
consequence  whatever,”  Winnie  persisted,  rising  unconsciously 
in  her  agitation  and  walking  away  from  the  table. 

A  half-melancholy  smile  followed  her  from  Mildred  Mount- 
revor’s  keen  watchful  eyes. 

“You  poor  little  simple-hearted  thing!”  she  said,  inwardly. 
“As  if  you  could  conceal  it — and  as  if  I  did  not  know  it  long 
ago  !  As  if  I  would  not  do  more  for  Stephen’s  sake — dear 
brother  Stephen,  the  only  brother  I  ever  had  in  loving  reality 
— as  if  I  would  not  have  aided  his  happiness  by  every  means 
in  my  power  long  ago,  when  I  thought  my  own  happiness  as 
near  and  as  sure  as  his!  ” 

Sadly,  and  half  enviously,  she  gazed  at  the  slender  black- 
robed  figure  standing  in  the  cold  gray  light  of  the  window — 
the  girl  on  whom  she  had  bestowed  her  half-scornful  com* 
passion  in  the  years  gone  by,  when  her  own  youth  and  love 
and  happiness  were  at  their  zenith  of  bloom  and  brightness 
— this  poor,  pale-faced,  gentle  little  woman. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


179 


CHAPTER  XXV, 

“  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing  for  you  to  attempt,  my 
dear,”  Madam  had  said,  with  a  rather  cold  smile,  when  Lady 
Mountrevor  and  Winnie,  wrapped  in  hoods  and  thick  shawls, 
had  entered  her  breakfast-room  to  explain  their  absence,  and 
inform  her  of  their  intentions  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  “  You 
are  very  courageous,  I  suppose,  and  it  is  really  very  good  of 
you,  Lady  Mountrevor,  to  take  such  an  interest  in  those  poor 
unhappy  creatures.  Can  I  do  anything,  can  I  send  anything 
up  to  Tregarthen,  Mildred?  I  will  with  pleasure.” 

“  Thank  you,  Madam,  no,”  her  niece  replied,  coldly. 
“  Tregarthen  House  is  well  supplied.” 

u  And  do  you  really  think  that  any  of  them  have  escaped? 
Hardly,  I  should  imagine,  poor  creatures;”  and  Madam’s  lit¬ 
tle  dimpled  hand  fluttered  coquettishly  amongst  the  hanging 
white  laces  of  her  purple  satin  under-sleeves,  as  with  a 
smile,  she  offered  a  dainty  breakfast-cup  of  her  favourite 
green  tea  to  her  visitors. 

“We  breakfasted  an  hour  since,  thank  you,  again,”  said 
Lady  Mildred,  more  frigidly,  and  drawing  Winnie  away. 
“We  but  came  to  explain  our  absence,  and  apologize  for  it, 
Madam.  I  am  old  enough  to  consider  an  effort  to  save  a 
poor,  half-dead  sailor’s  life  of  more  importance  than  a  comfort¬ 
able  breakfast  at  the  usual  nine  o’clock  hour — and  I  believe 
Miss  Winnie  Caerlyon  shares  my  peculiarity.  We  shall  not 
be  home  to  dinner.  Good  morning,  Madam!  ” 

“  Good  morning,  Lady  Mountrevor!  ”  returned  Madam,  of¬ 
fended,  and  taking  up  the  newspaper. 

“  Good  morning,  Madam!  ”  said  Winnie. 

Madam  rustled  the  paper  very  loudly,  held  the  sheet  before 
her  face,  and  made  no  reply. 

“  Do  I  really  think  that  any  of  them  have  escaped!  ”  Lady 
Mountrevor  repeated  indignantly,  as  she  and  Winnie  made 
their  way  along  the  wild,  bleak  cliff  road.  “  I  prefer  to  make 
sure  of  the  fact  with  my  own  eyes  and  ears,  at  all  events,  in¬ 
stead  of  sitting  sipping  tea  and  enjoying  raised  pies  and  but¬ 
tered  toast  and  reading  the  paper,  whilst  my  fellow-creatures 
are  perishing  in  a  watery  grave  within  &  mile  of  my  doors. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


180 

You  do  not  cull  that  selfishness — horrible,  cold-blooded  self¬ 
ishness?”  she  said,  sharply,  to  Winnie. 

“  Madam  would  not  be  selfish  if  those  she  loved  were  in 
trouble  or  danger,  I  am  sure,”  answered  Winnie.  “  She  does 
not  feel  her  sympathy  excited,  as  yours  is,  about  poor  stran¬ 
gers  whom  she  never  saw  or  heard  of.  If  you  or— or  her 
nephew,  Captain  Tredennick,  were  in  trouble  or  danger,  she 
would  act  very  differently.  It  is  a  lack  of  sympathy.” 

“I  should  say  so,  decidedly!  ”  Lad)7'  Mildred  exclaimed, 
indignantly.  “I  wonder  if  any  one  has  been  saved.  I  won¬ 
der  if  they  know  anything  about  the  vessel  yet.  What  are 
they  all  doing  down  there  on  the  shore,  Winnie?  Will  you 
ask  some  one  you  know — a  Coastguard  or  some  one  else- — to 
tell  us?”  she  said  impatiently.  “  Are  they  letting  people  die 
whilst  they  save  casks  and  barrels  ?” 

But  John  Richards,  of  whom  Winnie  made  inquiries, 
informed  Lady  Mountrevor,  with  a  desponding  shake  of  his 
head,  that  there  was  no  one  saved. 

“  Leastways,  my  lady,  theer  be  no  one  but  fower  drownded 
dead  corpses — all  white  and  gashly  to  look  at,  my  lady — ’e 
daren’t  go  an  ear  of  ’em.” 

“  But  the  men  that  were  seen  coming  in?  ”  Lady  Mildred 
asked,  eagerly. 

“Bless  ’e,  my  lady — I  means,”  John  Richards  replied, 
with  a  more  desponding  shake  of  the  head,  “  they  couldn’t 
a-come  a-nigh  the  foot  o’  the  Head;  they  be  dead  corpses 
long  ago,  my  lady.” 

But  John  Richards  seemed  fated  to  make  incorrect  .state¬ 
ments  this  morning,  and  burly  Ned  Boscawen  to  hear  and 
reprimand  him. 

“Who  tould  of  ’e  that  they  was  dead?”  he  demanded  of 
his  subordinate,  with  much  acrimony.  “  Beg  ’er  pardon,  my 
lady,  they  was  seen  alive  by  young  Will  Treglyn  haafe  an 
hour  ago,  one  on  ’em  waivin’  a  white  clath  or  flag — for  help, 
I  s’pose,  poor  fellows!  The  young  Will  Treglyn  he  see  ’em 
when  he  climbed  out  as  far  as  he  could  on  that  spur  of  rock 
below  theer.” 

“And  are  you  doing  nothing  to  help  them? ”  Lady  Mil¬ 
dred  asked,  with  flashing  eyes.  “  Those  people  below  there 
are  risking  their  lives  after  the  rubbish  from  the  wreck, 
while  the  crew  perish  within  sight  of  aid!  ” 

“  We  are  a  savin’  of  the  cargo  as  comes  in,”  Ned  Boscawen 
retorted,  doggedly;  “but  that  doesn’t  say  as  how  men  can 
swem  haafe  a  mile  through  breakers.  We  can’t  do  nothen 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  181 

tell  the  tide  is  full  agen,  and  then  maybe  the  cutter  can  get 
out  a  bit.” 

“  The  tide  will  not  be  out  yet  for  an  hour  nearly,  and  you 
must  wait  until  it  is  full  again!  ”  Winnie  said,  laying  her  thin 
little  hand,  like  a  flake  of  snow,  entreatingly,  on  the  boat¬ 
swain’s  rough  blue  sleeve.  “  Oh,  Ned,  can  nothing  be  done 
before  that?  ” 

“  ’Tesn’t  no  manner  o’  use  in  ’e  bein’  asken  of  that  of  me?” 
responded  Ned,  testily.  “  Can  e’  fly  over  the  cliff  like  a 
gull?  Can  e’  swem  like  a  fish?  Then,  ef  e’  can’t, ’e  can’t 
do  nothen,  I  tell  ’e,  Miss  Winnie,  tell  full  tide.” 

“Does  no  one  know  anything  about  the  vessel — even  her 
name,  cargo — anything?  ”  Lady  Mildred  inquired  again. 

“  She’s  bleevedto  be  a  merchantman — her  cargo’s  tea  and 
such  like,  as  far  as  we  can  tell — we’ve  seen  no  name,  ’cept 
her  cargo’s  London  bound,”  Ned  replied,  briefly,  edging 
away  from  her  ladyship’s  inquiries. 

Disconsolately  irresolute,  they  stood  where  the  gruff 
boatswain  had  left  them,  in  the  scant  shelter  of  a  high  bank 
— Winnie  looking  sadly  at  the  raging  waves,  high  and  fierce 
as  ever,  Lady  Mildred,  in  angry  despairing  impatience, 
watching  the  eager  groups  on  the  shore  below,  between 
which  and  the  Head  intervened  the  furious  seething  water 
and  the  rocks  of  the  Black  Reef,  when  they  both  noticed 
the  scattered  groups  of  men,  women,  and  boys  running 
together,  beckoning  and  gesticulating  in  excitement  over 
something  which  had  just  been  snatched  from  the  return¬ 
ing  sweep  of  the  waves— something  which  had  floated  in 
from  the  wreck,  now  lying  half  bottom  upwards,  her  broken 
masts  smashing  away  in  splinters;  and  emerging  from  the 
excited  crowd  around  the  salvage  came  John  Richards,  the 
blundering,  simple-minded  Coastguard,  running  from  the 
strip  of  beach  up  the  cliff  path. 

Winnie,  seeing  him  coming,  rushed  forward  to  meet  him. 
Her  heart  seemed  to  pause  beneath  the  weight  of  the  pre¬ 
sentiment  that  was  the  herald  of  that  swift  comer’s  awful 
news. 

“What  is  it,  John  Richards?  What  have  they  found?” 

John  Richards,  charging  past  her  in  blind  confusion  and 
dismay,  pulled  up  short,  with  a  white  face  and  gasping  utter¬ 
ance. 

“  Lor’  bless  ’e!  Aw,  my  dear — aw,  Miss  Winnie — how  are 
e’  to  tell  of  et  to  um — the  poor  lady,  her  ladyship  theer,  an’ 
Ah’  ould  Madam  Vivian?  Aw,  ’tes  saad!  Miss  Winnie,  my 


382 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


dear,  ’tes  the  Cappun’s  ship — her  name’s  on  the  starn  they’ve 
pulled  in!  Aw,  Miss  Winnie,  ’tes  the  Cappun  of  the  Chittoor 
as  haave  been  lost  in  this  wisht  night!  ”  and  John  Richards, 
gulping  down  sobs,  was  obliged  to  pause  for  breath. 

For  one  minute  the  wdiite  angry  ocean,  the  bleak  bare  land, 
seemed  to  whirl  and  fade  away  before  Winifred  Caerlyon’s 
eyes,  and  the  icy  breath  of  the  sea-mists  to  enter  within  her 
and  freeze  every  warm  pulse  of  life  into  stillness;  but  the 
calm  presence  of  mind,  the  ability  to  rule  and  guide  the 
breaking  heart  and  burning  brain,  which  is  the  merciful  gift 
of  those  frail,  gentle  womanly  natures  which  always  cover 
so  strong  and  yet  so  meek  a  soul,  did  not  desert  her  now. 
There  was  something  to  be  done  yet;  by-and  by  would  be 
time  enough  for  agony  and  despair. 

“Lady  Mountrevor,  dear  Lady  Mountrevor” — she  put  her 
slender  arms  around  the  tall  Juno-like  form — “they  have 
learned  the  name  of  the  ship.” 

“  What  is  it?  ”  Lady  Mildred  asked,  in  momentary  amaze¬ 
ment.  “Winnie,  why  do  you  look  so?  Oh,  Winnie,  Win¬ 
nie,”  she  cried,  with  an  imploring  shriek  of  terror  and  dis¬ 
may,  “  do  I  know  the  name?  Winnie,  answer  me!  Oh, 
Stephen,  Stephen!  Is  it  cousin  Stephen’s?  Winnie,  I  don’t 
believe  it.  They  are  mistaken.  It  could  not  be — it  could 
not  be!  ”  she  went  on,  wildly.  “What  are  they  talking  of? 
The  merchantman,  Chittoor ?  Nonsense,  nonsense,  I  tell 
you!  ” 

Fiercely  and  angrily,  in  her  grief  and  bewilderment,  she 
caught  Winnie’s  arm,  and  at  reckless  speed  hurried  her 
down  the  steep  path  to  the  strip  of  beach  and  the  excited 
crowd  below.  Respectfully,  and  with  muttered  exclamations 
of  sympathy,  the  people  fell  back  as  she  approached,  and 
two  Cornish  miners  held  up  to  the  cold  morning  light  a 
dripping  piece  of  wood,  the  stern  and  name-board  of  a  ship, 
with  lengths  of  splintered  timbers  attached. 

“What  is  the  name?  Can  you  read  it,  Winnie?  It  is 
all  scratched  and  battered — no  one  can  make  it  out!”  Lady 
Mildred  cried,  in  desperation,  against  the  evidence  of  her 
senses. 

By  Winnie  Caerlyon,  looking  with  tearless  eyes  on  those 
large  white  and  gilded  letters  on  a  dark  painted  background, 
they  could  be  deciphered  as  easily  as  the  letters  of  a  child’s 
alphabet,  as  easily  as  a  message  in  a  well-known  writing,  as 
surely,  as  accurately  as  the  dread  words  of  a  death-warrant. 
She  did  not  doubt  or  disbelieve;  it  was  death — Stephen  Tre- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


183 


dennick’s  death  that  she  was  looking  on — that  stormy  sea  his 
grave,  that  black  dismantled  hulk  lying  on  Tregarthen  Reef 
his  only  coffin,  if  indeed  his  dead  body  was  not  the  sport  of 
those  fierce  leaping  seething  billows. 

Perhaps  he  had  been  drowned  early  in  the  night,  and  those 
fierce  waves  had  been  beating  on  that  dear,  noble,  kindly 
face,  so  fixed  and  white,  and  on  the  broad,  strong  breast 
whose  kindly  heart  was  stilled  for  ever,  all  through  the 
dreadful  hours  of  darkness?  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  had 
felt  that  unearthly  terror  of  the  cruel  storm?  Perhaps  that 
was  why  her  blood  had  run  cold  at  each  crash  of  the  break¬ 
ers,  each  shriek  of  the  tempest?  Because  they  had  been 
murdering  Stephen  Tredennick ! 

Death  had  been  abroad  in  the  wild  night — death  within 
and  without!  Death-dirges  were  ringing  through  the*  air — 
death-cries  coming  on  each  sweeping  blast  of  the  storm  ! 
Had  not  some  one  else  died?  Albert  Gardiner  was  dead, 
and  Stephen  Tredennick  was  dead — how  many  had  died? 
Was  everybody  dying?  How  many  more  were  to  die? 

In  a  kind  of  delirious  trance  she  had  sunk  on  her  knees  on 
the  wet  sand,  staring  vacantly  at  the  name  lettered  so  clearly 
that  it  seemed  to  burn  through  her  sight  and  write  its  fatal 
message  on  her  brain,  thinking  of  the  cruel,  tossing  waves- — 
tossing,  tossing,  all  through  the  long,  dark,  pitiless  hours— 
tossing  Something  which  had  become  their  prey — while  she 
— oh,  merciful  Heaven  !  —  sat  sheltered  from  the  storm, 
warmly  wrapped,  on  a  couch  by  a  bright  fire!  The  horror  of 
the  thought  seemed  to  benumb  her  faculties,  as  she  uttered 
slowly,  as  if  her  lips  refused  to  pronounce  the  words— 

“  Chittoor — the  Chittoor — Lady  Mildred!  ” 

“The  Chittoor!  Is  it  the  Chittoor  that  is  lying  over  there? 
Winnie,  is  it?”  Lady  Mildred  cried.  “But  they  escaped — 
some  escaped — Stephen  may  have  escaped!  Some  were 
saved — Stephen  may  be  amongst  them!  Perhaps  he  may — 
don’t  you  think  Stephen  escaped,  Winnie?  ”  she  reiterated, 
piteously. 

“I  don’t  know,”  Winnie  replied,  in  a  stunned,  dreary  way; 
“we  must  ask  the  survivors — we  must  reach  them  first.” 

“Yes — yes,  at  once!”  Lady  Mildred  cried,  eagerly.  “I  will 
give  a  hundred  guineas  to  the  first  man  who  will  reach  them 
by  the  cliffs!  ” 

There  was  eager  disputing,  clamoring,  persuading,  dissuad¬ 
ing — women  crying,  men  vociferating — amongst  the  group 
for  several  minutes,  and  at  the  height  of  the  discussion  Win- 


184 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


nie  Caerlyon  put  her  hand  on  John  Richards’s  arm  again  and 
drew  him  aside. 

It  required  repeated  directions  to  reach  willing  John’s  dull 
understanding,  but  he  finally  set  off  at  a  steady  trot,  shaking 
his  head  dismally  and  muttering  hopelessly  to  himself  the 
while. 

“  Ropes — strong  new  ropes — there  are  none  long  or  strong 
enough  here.  I  sent  him  to  tell  my  father  what  we  are  go¬ 
ing  to  do,”  Winnie  said,  in  reply  to  Lady  Mildred’s  question¬ 
ing;  “  there  are  two  or  three  new  coils  always  in  the  boat¬ 
house.” 

“  But  those  cowardly  creatures,”  Lady  Mildred  exclaimed, 
passionately,  dashing  away  the  blinding  tears  from  her  eyes 
— “we  cannot  make  them  go  down  the  cliffs— no  reward  will 
make  them  attempt  it!  A  brave  sailor  would  go  in  a  moment! 
Oh,  what  shall  we  do — what  shall  we  do?  The  tide  is  on  the 
turn  and  no  chance  of  rescue!  Winnie,  Winnie,  tell  me 
what  are  we  to  do?  Winnie,  it  is  Stephen  Tredennick  who 
is  perhaps  down  there  amongst  those  few  half-drowned,  half- 
starved  men!  Oh,  dear  Stephen,  what  shall  I  do?  ”  she 
wrung  her  hands  and  sobbed  aloud. 

“We  shall  get  news  very  soon,  please  Heaven — very  soon 
we  shall  know  the  truth,  Lady  Mildred.” 

“  How — how?  They  are  afraid  to  venture,  the  miserable 
wretches!  ”  Lady  Mildred  cried,  with  a  wail  of  despair. 

“  They  are  only  poor  miners  and  a  few  fisher-lads,  besides 
the  Coastguard  men;  and  Tregarthen  Head  is  a  tremendous 
height  above  the  Reef,”  Winnie  Caerlyon  explained.  “  But 
don’t  fear,  Lady  Mildred;  I  know  one  who  will  go,  if  no  one 
else  will.” 

“  Who?”  she  asked,  looking  round  eagerly.  But  Winnie 
Caerlyon  turned  away  without  a  reply.  Presently  she  per¬ 
ceived  the  distant  forms  of  men  hurrying  from  the  Coast¬ 
guard  station  with  the  coils  of  rope. 

“  Now,  Lady  Mildred,”  she  called,  “here  are  the  ropes. 
Offer  your  reward,  and  let  us  see  who  will  volunteer.  Will 
any  of  you  risk  your  life  to  save  the  lives  of  the  poor  fellows 
on  the  Black  Reef?”  Winnie  asked,  walking  in  amongst  the 
crowd.  “  Will  any  one  of  you  men  volunteer  to  go  over  the' 
cliff  with  a  rope?  ” 

A  kind  of  shuddering  silence  ran  through  the  group,  each 
man  looking  into  his  neighbour’s  face. 

“  A  hundred  guineas  to  him  who  does  it,  my  men!  ”  Lady 
Mildred  said,  passionately,  trying  to  compel  herself  to  coax 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


185 


and  entreat,  when  she  would  fain  have  ordered  instant  obedi¬ 
ence.  “  Is  there  not  one  that  will  try?  You  know  whose 
ship  is  the  one  lost  and  broken  over  there  on  the  rocks — you 
know  who  I  would  fain  dare  hope  is  amongst  the  few  who 
have  escaped — you  knew  him  as  well  as  I,”  she  said;  and,  in 
spite  of  pride  and  fierce  impatience,  she  burst  into  tears  be¬ 
fore  them.  “  If  you  will  not  try  to  save  Captain  Stephen 
Tredennick — Tredennick  of  Tregarthen — for  his  own  sake, 
for  your  memory  of  him,  my  entreaty  is,  I  fear,  useless.  Five 
hundred  pounds  to  him  who  saves  him!  ” 

“ I’ll  do  it,  my  lady!”  The  brave  words  came  from  the 
youngest  man  in  the  crowd — a  mere  lad  in  years — curly- 
haired  Will  Treglyn,  a  poor  crippled  miner’s  only  son. 

“  Oh,  not  you,  Will,  not  you,  and  your  poor  father  with  no 
one  else!  ”  the  women  cried. 

“  I’ll  do  my  best,  I  tell  ’e!  ”  cried  sturdy  Will.  “  I’ll  have 
a  try  for  et,  anyhows.” 

“  Oh,  Will,  your  poor  mother — ’twell  be  her  death!”  the 
women  chorused  again 

“  Is  his  mother  here?”  demanded  Lady  Mildred,  turning 
on  the  frightened  group  so  that  they  quailed  into  muttering 
silence.  “  Then  hold  your  tongues,  and  let  the  brave  fellow 
alone!” 

Winnie  Caerlyon  grasped  his  hand  and  pressed  it  tightly, 

“  God  bless  you,  Willie  Treglyn!”  she  said  fervently. 
“Your  mother  may  well  be  proud  of  you.” 

“It’s  madness — madness,  I  tell  e’  sir,”  Ned  Boscawen 
grumbled  to  his  officer.  “  Will  Treglyn  may  go  swinging 
over  th’  'Head  for  a  few  feet,  but  ef  the  rope  don’t  cut  and 
srnesh  hem,  below  theer,  he’ll  liaave  to  be  hauled  up  as  wise 
as  he  went  down.” 

The  rope  was  around  young  Will’s  waist,  and  Lady  Mil¬ 
dred,  standing  by  his  side,  was  uttering  promises  and  encour¬ 
agement,  whilst  Winnie  gave  him  some  brandy  from  the 
large  flask  which  they  had  brought  with  them,  secured  it 
safely  at  his  waistbelt,  adjusted  the  ropes  with  her  little  fin¬ 
gers  so  that  they  should  not  gall  him,  and  was  shaking  his 
hand  and  bidding  him  “Godspeed,”  when,  warned  by  an 
alarmed  officious  neighbour  of  her  boy’s  intention,  Molly 
Treglyn,  bareheaded  and  in  her  scanty  cotton  gown,  came 
running  up  the  road  to  the  Head,  and  in  a  minute  had  him  in 
her  arms,  shrieking,  sobbing,  and  protesting  that  not  for 
twice  five  hundred — ten  times  five  hundred  pounds  would 
she  stand  to  look  at  her  child’s  murder — tearing  at  the  ropes, 


186  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOBNING. 

kissing  him,  scolding  him  violently,  crying  over  him,  and 
giving  him  smart  blows  and  shakes  alternately. 

“  Mother,  do  ’e  be  quiet!  ”  brave  young  Will  said,  trying 
to  wrest  himself  away  from  her  hold.  “  I  be  goin’  only  to 
see  ef  et  can  be  done.  They’ll  haul  me  up  as  soon  as  ever  I 
give  the  segnal  to  ’em.  Do  ’e  be  quiet,  mother — and  thenk,” 
he  whispered — “  her  ladyship’s  goin’  to  gev  e’  a  hunnerd 
pound,  mother;  ef  I  only  try  to  go  down  a  bit!  ’Tesn’t 
nothen,  I  tell  e’ — I’ve  gone  nigh  as  bad  places  for  gull’s 
eggs,”  said  Will,  drawing  on  his  imagination.  “  ’Twon’t  take 
me  very  long  neither.  A  hunnerd  pound,  mother!  ’  Twell 
set  ’e  and  fayther  up  for  the  rest  of  ’eer  lives!  ” 

“  An  wheer’ll  ’e  be  when  we’ve  the  hunnerd  pound?  Aw, 
Willie,  my  laad!  ”  cried  his  mother,  pitifully. 

A  band  of  men  formed;  the  great  rope  wound  in  and  out 
around  their  arms  as  they  stood  one  behind  the  other.  Out 
crept  young  Will  Treglyn  to  the  crumbling  edge  of  the 
precipice.  Holding  their  breaths,  the  men  watched  him  drop 
himself  over  the  edge,  while  his  mother,  sitting  on  the 
ground  with  staring  eyeballs,  moaned  with  every  breath  from 
the  anguish  of  her  suspense.  Waist,  shoulders,  head,  slowly 
slipped  down  out  of  sight,  and  the  Coryish  miners  com¬ 
menced  cautiously  to  “pay  out”  the  rope. 

Slowly,  carefully,  with  jerks  from  below,  the  rope  went 
down,  down;  then  came  a  jerk,  a  sudden  strain;  then  more 
rope  was  paid  out,  followed  by  a  terrible  strain,  a  violent 
jerk  that  threw  one  of  the  rope-holders  on  his  face,  then 
came  continued  jerks,  and  a  terrible  strain  again,  and  then  a 
.long  pause. 

“  Sometlien  haave  happened  to  un,”  the  men  muttered; 
“  there  hain’t  a  hunnerd  foot  of  rope  paid  out  yet.” 

There  was  a  long  pause,  with  only  straining  and  jerking  at 
the  rope,  and  then,  after  another  long  pause,  without  waiting 
for  the  signal,  the  men  commenced  to  pull  up.  Slowly  up 
came  the  rope  and  its  burden  again,  and,  with  a  cheer,  and 
with  renewed  outcries  and  tears  from  his  mother  at  the 
sight  of  her  “  laad  ”  dripping  with  sea-water,  his  hands  and 
face  covered  with  blood,  and  one  arm  hanging  useless,  broken, 
at  his  side,  they  hauled  Will  Treglyn  on  to  the  sod. 

“’Twas  they  breakers,”  said  poor  Will,  in  his  Cornish  dia¬ 
lect.  “  They  gev’  un  a  blaw  here,  and  a  blaw  tlieer,  an’  a 
flung  me  here,  an’  twisted  they  rope  around  they  rocks;  an’ 
a  tried  to  clear  et,  an’  a  cuddent — a  cuddent  ef  a  was  to  try 
haafe  a  day.  An’  then  a  got  a  top  ev  a  grut  rock,  an’  a  tried 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  187 

BE.  . 

ST. 

to  hould  on,  an’  a  was  pitched  clane  agen  the  cliff,  an’  a  arm 
v  smeshed;  an’  then  a  cuddent  do  nothen  moore.  I  be  sorry, 
>  my  lady,”  said  poor  young  Will,  earnestly,  with  his  left  hand 
wiping  away  the  blood  trickling  from  his  brows.  “Ef 
ma  arm  wasn’t  broken,  I’d  go  down  again  en  a  mennit — that 
a  would!  They  poor  fellows  is  alive — they  see  me,  an’  one 
on  ’em  gev  un  a  shout;  an’  a  wish  a  could  go  down  to  ’em 
agen!” 

“No,  no,  my  poor  fellow;  you  have  done  what  you  could,” 
said  Lady  Mildred.  “  Go  up  to  Tregarthen  House,  Mrs. 
Treglyn,  for  whatever  you  may  require.  Tell  the  house¬ 
keeper  you  were  sent  by  me,  and  get  the  doctor  for  your 
brave  son  at  once.  And  now  what  is  to  be  done?”  she 
asked  of  those  around,  looking  at  each  pallid,  frightened  face 
in  gloomy  despair. 

“Lady  Mildred,  Lady  Mildred”— the  little  figure  by  her 
side  moved  closer,  and  the  upturned  earnest  eyes  glittered 
like  jewels  beneath  the  blue-veined  temples — “don’t fear  yet 
— there’s  one  will  go  yet!  Don’t  fear — there’s  one  that  will 
go  surely  yet!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

“  This  storm  affects  my  nerves  dreadfully,”  Madam  said, 
peevishly.  “  I  cannot  think  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  Are 
you  sure  the  portiere  is  drawn,  Trewhella?  The  room  feels, 
full  of  draughts.  Stir  up  the  fire,  please,  and  draw  that  ban¬ 
ner-screen  out  farther.” 

“  Will  you  have  your  woolwork,  Madam?”  Miss  Trewhella 
asked  in  a  most  sympathetic  voice.  “  It  do  try  the  nerves, 
Madam,  awful  !  I  reely  feel  myself  as  if  my  head  was  quite 
light,  and  my  heart  flutterin’  like  a  bird,  reely,  Madam.  I’m 
sure  it’s  no  wonder  you  should  be  nervous.  It  is  well  for  her 
ladyship  to  be  as  strong  and  as  brisk  as  she  is — reely  amazing, 
isn’t  it,  Madam,  to  see  her?  ” 

“  Her  ladyship  is  under  the  impression  that  she  has  a 
remarkably  excitable,  impressionable,  nervous  system,”  said 
Madam,  rather  spitefully.  “  To  see  her  this  morning  one 
would  imagine  that  she  was  used  to  living  on  the  cliffs  and 
being  out  in  all  weathers,  like  little  Winnie  Caerlyon.” 


188 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


Miss  Trewhella  tittered,  and  then  finished  off  with  a  little 
cough. 

“  It’s  just  a  fancy  of  her  ladyship’s,  as  you  say,  Madam, 
running  about  as  if  she  was  born  and  bred  like  poor  little  Miss 
Winnie.  Up  at  Tregarthen,  before  daylight  this  mornin’, 
I  saw  them  goin’ off,  and  Miss  Winnie  with  a  black  poplin 
skirt  of  her  ladyship’s  on  her — must  have  been  a  mile  too 
long — he — he — he!  Reely — I  beg  your  pardon,  Madam — I 
thought  I  should  have  burst  out  laughing  when  I  saw  it  on 
her.  It’s  very  nice  and  kind  of  her  ladyship;  I  dare  say 
she’ll  keep  Miss  Winnie  at  Tregarthen,  sewing  and  doing  up 
things  now  until  the  Captain  comes  home.  Miss  Winnie  is 
so  clever  at  making  things  up  nice,  and  her  ladyship  do  seem 
to  have  took  such  a  wonderful  fancy  to  her.” 

There  was  a  sly  sneer  in  Miss  Trewliella’s  furtive  glance 
at  her  mistress,  as  the  old  lady  pettishly  took  off  her  glasses, 
declaring  that  they  made  her  eyes  ache,  and  pushed  the 
basket  of  wools  away. 

“  I  wonder  if  Miss  Winnie  intends  being  kinder  to  her 
old  friend,  Mr.  Pascoe,  now,  than  she  used  before  she  went 
away,”  Madam  said,  apparently  studying  the  braiding  of  her 
dress.  “  It  is  time  for  Miss  Winnie  to  think  of  getting  set¬ 
tled.  She  is  eight-and-twenty,  I  believe.” 

“Eight-and-twenty,  Madam!  ”  returned  Miss  Trewhella,  in 
a  very  high-pitched  tone.  “Nigher  four-and-thirty!  Mr. 
Pascoe,  her  own  step-mother’s  cousin,  told  me  nine  years  ago 
that  he  believed  his  cousin  Winnie,  as  he  calls  her,  was  near 
three-and- twenty.” 

“  Oh,  nonsense,”  said  Madam,  with  a  satirical  smile.  The 
worthy  Miss  Trewhella’s  strenuous  efforts  at  the  arithmetic 
of  addition  as  applied  to  other  women’s  ages,  and  the  aritlu 
metic  of  subtraction  as  applied  to  her  own,  were  well  known 
to  her. 

“Well,  whatever  age  she  is,  Madam — whether  she’s  what 
I  say,  or  seven  or  eight-and-twenty  as  you  say,”  Miss  Tre¬ 
whella  continued,  shaking  her  head  very  much  and  tightening 
her  lips  in  a  surprising  manner — “  she’ve  no  notion  of  Mr. 
Pascoe,  Madam.  Oh,  de-ar,  no!  They  get  very  high  notions 
in  America,  Madam.  One’s  as  good  as  another,  over  there,  I 
hear.  There’s  no  one  too  good,  or  too  fine,  or  too  grand,  for 
a  young  lady  to  think  of  setting  her  cap  at  over  there!  Mr. 
Pascoe,  the  purser — her  own  step-mother’s  cousin — ain’t  half 
good  enough  for  Miss  Winnie,  since  she’s  been  and  got  the 
high,  presuming  Yankee  notions!  She  wasn’t  across  the  door- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MORNING. 


189 


step  last  night  when  I  noticed  it,  Madam — reely.  Now  isn’t 
that  surprising?  Quite  the  air  of  being  somebody,  you  know, 
Madam,  and  so  dressed  up  !  Surprising,  Madam!  She  had 
nothing  less  than  splendid  gros  grain  on  her  dress,  Madam  ; 
and  her  crape  was  nine  shillings  a  yard  if  it  was  a  penny  ! 
Reely  you’d  think,  to  see  her  with  Lady  Mountrevor,  that 
she  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  her  ladyship’s,  and  a  titled 
lady,  too — reely  surprising!  And  she  all  night  in  her  lady¬ 
ship’s  room,  too!  They’re  the  greatest  friends.” 

“  Trewhella,  please  don’t  talk  so  much — you  make  my  head 
ache,”  her  mistress  said,  irritably. 

“  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  Madam — I  was  only  trying  to  amuse 
you,  seeing  as  you  weren’t  able  to  work,”  Miss  Trewhella 
explained,  in  her  most  'touchingly  humble  and  reproachful 
voice.  “  Of  course  it’s  nothing  to  me  what  Miss  Caerlyon 
aspires  to  or  doesn’t  aspire  tfo.  I  shouldn’t  ’ave  presumed  to 
mention  Miss  Caerlyon’s  sayings,  or  doings,  or  goings  on  in 
any  manner,  only  I  thought  it  would  be  amusing  to  you, 
Madam,  this  terrible  dreary  day,  and  your  nerves  so  bad.” 

The  worthy  creature’s  voice  subsided  into  an  injured 
whine,  and  with  a  melancholy  sigh  she  glided  out  of  her 
mistress’s  presence. 

The  white  jewelled  hands  trembled  amongst  the  Berlin 
wools,  and  tangled  them  together;  and  the  stormy  flush 
which  those  who  offended  her  knew  so  well  coloured  all 
Madam  Vivian’s  pale,  ivory-like  complexion. 

“  Are  they  all  in  league  against  me?”  she  whispered,  pas¬ 
sionately  clenching  her  fingers — “  my  nephew  Stephen,  that 
haughty,  obstinate  woman,  Mildred  Mountrevor,  and  Winnie 
Caerlyon?  Am  I  to  be  as  nothing,  if  a  man’s  folly,  a  reck¬ 
less,  self-willed  woman’s  whim,  and  a  presuming  young  per¬ 
son’s  intentions  are  set  on  achieving  a  thing?  How  dare 
she!  How  dare^  Mildred  Mountrevor  make  light  of  my 
wishes  and  my  authority  in  my  own  house!  How  dare  Win¬ 
nie  Caerlyon  dream  of  it!  There  is  yet  time,”  said  Madam, 
growing  feverish  with  anger,  and  beginning  to  pace  the 
room;  u  I  shall  put  an  end  to  this  matter,  oneway  or  another. 
Winifred  Caerlyon  shall  know  what  she  is  daring  if  she  ven¬ 
tures  to  interfere  with  my  plans  for  the  future  of  Stephen 
Tredennick.” 


190  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

“  Winnie,  you  shall  not  attempt  it!  Winnie,  my  dear,  you 
are  mad  to  think  of  it!  Winnie,  my  child,  would  you  have 
your  father  stand  by  to  see  you  murdered?  My  poor  little 
girl,  the  first  blow  of  those  waves  would  knock  your  life  out 
in  an  instant!” 

But  all  she  said  was — “  Let  me  go.  I  am  not  afraid — not 
afraid,  if  I  must  die,  so  long  as  I  can  save  all  those  below! 
Father,  father,  their  lives  are  in  our  hands!  Don’t  forbid 
me.  Lady  Mildred,  speak  to  him  !” 

“  Lor’  bless  ’e,  Miss  Winnie,  don’t  ’e  think  of  doin’  such 
like,”  a  stout  fisherman  interposed.  “I’ll  try!  Let  me  try, 
Lieutenant.” 

“No!”  Winnie  said,  putting  him  back.  “You  can  hold 
the  rope.  You  are  a  heavy  man — there  might  be  more  dan¬ 
ger  for  you;  and  you  have  a  wife  and  children  depending 
on  you  also.  I  will  go.  Father,  you  will  not  say  ‘  No.’  It 
is  my  duty.  Father,  you  will  not  refuse  to  let  me  risk  my 
life  for  the  lives  of  others,  will  you?  You  would  risk  your 
own  freely.” 

“Winnie,  my  child,”  he  cried,  with  tears,  “  don’t  talk  so! 
I  can’t  say  ‘No’ — I  can’t  say  ‘Yes’ — I  can’t  stand  by  to 
see  you  killed!  My  girl,  you’d  never  accomplish  such  a  terri¬ 
ble  feat — you  needn’t  think  of  it.” 

“Let  me  try.”  She  kissed  his  face,  and  murmured  a  few 
words  in  his  ear.  “  All  I  have  is  for  you  and  mamma  and 
the  children,  father;  you  will  find  papers  in  my  desk;  ”  and 
the  grave,  reserved,  unemotional  father  shook  with  sobs,  and 
turned  away  to  hide  from  the  sight  of  his  gentle  daughter’s 
going  to  her  doom. 

“Winnie  dear — Winnie  love!”  Lady  Mildred  cried,  chok¬ 
ing  with  agitation.  “  Winnie,  if  anything  happens  to  you, 
I  shall  feel  myself  a  murderess  for  the  rest  of  my  life!  My 
brave  girl,  Heaven  keep  you!  I’ll  pray  for  you  here  on  my 
knees,  Winnie,  until  I  see  your  face  again.  Kiss  me,  dear.” 

Never  again  in  Tolgooth,  or  Tregarthen,  or  in  the  whole 
country-side,  did  any  one  fear  or  regard  Mildred,  Lady 
Mountrevor,  as  a  cold-hearted,  haughty,  unapproachable 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  191 

woman,  after  that  dreadful  day  on  Tregarthen  Head.  “  She 
was  like  one  of  ourselves,”  they  said,  referring  to  her 
womanly  excitement,  fear,  grief,  and  affection.  Those  whom 
she  had  fiercely  scolded  forgave  her  when  she  entreated 
them  as  those  on  whose  aid  she  depended — those  whom  she 
imperiously  ordered  about  obeyed  her,  and  would  have  done 
so  without  even  the  promises  she  lavished  of  reward.  The 
women  pitied  her,  and  shed  tears  for  her  distracted  grief  and 
excitement  at  her  beloved  cousin’s  possibly  untimely  end; 
they  liked  her  and  admired  her  for  her  passionate,  remorse¬ 
ful  tenderness  to  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon. 

“  Poor  little  Miss  Winnie  ” — the  poor  Lieutenant’s  daugh¬ 
ter — who,  they  said,  was  going  to  her  doom — to  meet  the 
risk  of  almost  certain  death!  For  Winnie  Caerlyon,  with 
her  slender  black-robed  figure,  her  little  white  hands,  her 
uncovered  head,  with  its  wealth  of  beautiful  brown  hair,  her 
meek  white  face,  was  taking  the  place  which  brave  young 
Will  Treglyn  had  been  forced  to  abandon — was  fastening 
the  rope  around  her  poor  little  fragile  girlish  waist,  and  going 
over  Tregarthen  Head,  down  amongst  the  blinding  sheets  of 
spray  and  the  thundering  breakers  of  the  Black  Reef — down 
the  face  of  a  deep  precipitous  overhanging  cliff,  to  attempt 
the  rescue  of  the  survivors  of  the  Chittoor. 

Those  who  stood  beside  her  to  see  her  make  the  terrible 
essay  said  afterwards  that  they  could  not  have  told  how  it 
was  they  permitted  her  to  go.  Blank  amazement  had  stupified 
unbelief,  enthusiastic  admiration  of  her  courage  had  semi- 
paralysed  their  faculties,  until  she  stood  ready  for  the  descent, 
looking  up  to  Heaven  in  prayer  on  the  very  verge  of  Tregar¬ 
then  Head. 

Her  father  flung  himself  on  his  face  with  a  groan  of  horror, 
and  a  deadly  shiver  went  through  the  frames  of  the  rough 
men  standing  by.  Lady  Mildred  crept  forward,  her  limbs 
seeming  to  totter  beneath  her. 

“This  once  before  you  go — brave  soul,  dear  girl!”  she 
said,  weeping.  “Listen.  Winnie — I  must  tell  you — I  should 
like  you  to  know — now,”  she  gasped,  looking  wildly  at  Win¬ 
nie,  as  at  one  who  stood  half  within  the  dread  portals  of 
eternity.  “You  asked  me  something  this  morning  about 
Stephen?  Winnie — Winnie — do  you  not  know?  He  loved 
you,  dear,  long  ago!  I  believe,  if  he  is  yet  alive,  that  he 
loves  you  still!  He  always  loved  you,  Winnie!  ” 

The  answering  smile  on  the  face  of  the  girl  to  whom  she 
spoke  was  as  the  pathetic  smile  of  the  calm,  passionless  dead. 


192 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


And  then  Winnie  Caen  n,  hidden  from  mortal  sight,  went 
down  alone  to  wrestle  with  an  awful  fate. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

With  the  thundering  voices  of  the  waters  in  her  ears,  wail¬ 
ing  despair,  shrieking  vengeance,  roaring  threats  of  destruc¬ 
tion,  all  around  her  the  mingling  of  the  clouds  of  sky  and  sea 
— cold,  leaden-hued,  misty  clouds  above,  cold,  white  spray- 
clouds  below;  with  clenched  hands,  contracted  limbs,  distend¬ 
ed,  watching  eyes;  feeling  the  awful  swaying  hither  and 
thither  of  the  rope,  and  the  occasional  striking  of  projections 
of  rock — as  one  in  a  stupor  dimly  feels  the  roughest  arousing 
movements — Winnie  Caerlyon  went  down,  down,  swiftly 
down,  until  the  terrible  jagged,  black  rocks  beneath  showed 
like  demon  forms  crouching  darkly  under  the  concealment  of 
white  surf,  preparing — oh,  so  easily  and  speedily! — to  rend 
and  tear  asunder  the  body  of  their  frail  young  victim — to 
beat  out  and  deface  in  hideous  disfigurement  every  trace  of 
womanly  fairness  in  that  slender  form  swaying  hither  and 
thither  amidst  wind  and  spray,  like  a  frail  reed;  down,  down, 
swinging  in  mid-air  here  where  the  shelving  cliff  overhangs, 
gliding  swiftly  with  outstretched,  numbed,  bleeding  hands 
by  a  smooth  perpendicular  face  there,  guiding  the  rope 
with  a  dull  concentration  of  all  her  faculties  on  each 
jutting  spur  and  crag,  lest  they  strike  her  into  in¬ 
sensibility  or  kill  her  in  a  moment;  down,  down, 
and  the  blinding  sheets  of  spray  drench  her  through 
and  through  ;  down  further,  and  the  great  waves  fling  their 
crests  over  her  head;  down  still,  nearer  those  cruel  black 
rocks — they  are  waiting  for  her — she  cannot  avoid  them! — 
down,  till  the  swaying  rope  brings  her  to  the  great  serrated 
edges,  the  horrible  chevaux  de  frise  of  splintered  granite. 
The  waves  stun  her — blind  her — beat  her;  the  waves  would 
fain  tear  her  away,  to  torture  and  suffocate  amidst  the  rend¬ 
ing  iron  arms,  the  black  whirlpools  of  the  Black  Reef;  but 
one  fierce  rock  Titan  holds  her  fast,  and,  with  the  white,  bare 
arms,  all  bruised  and  torn,  clinging  to  his  rough  breast,  Win¬ 
nie  sits  secure  in  the  cradling  hollow  of  a  great  black  boulder, 
while  the  hissing  waves  can  only  writhe  around  her  feet  and 
bespatter  her  dripping  hair,  washed  and  beaten  half  out  of 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  193 

its  tight  coils,  whilst  she  cries  aloud  in  thankfulness  to 
Heaven. 

Her  senses  have  returned  now — clearly,  vividly.  She  can 
remember,  and  think,  and  plan,  and  decide.  Her  excited 
brain,  her  bounding  pulses,  her  rejoicing  soul,  would  carry 
her  through  worse  dangers  than  the  past  ones  ten  times  over. 
She  can  recall  the  position  of  the  rocks,  and  the  scraps  of 
sandy,  weed-grown  banks  left  bare  by  the  tide,  as  she  remem¬ 
bered  them  eight  years  ago.  She  can  slip  down  this  great 
rock,  wade  over  that  bank,  mount  that  jagged  shelving  piece 
there,  which  leads  to  the  hollowed  recesses  in  that  projecting 
gable  of  rock  above  high-water  mark.  She  must  climb  up 
there  by  the  fringing  growth  of  sea-weed — up  there,  where 
the  survivors  of  the  Chittoor  lie. 

Is  there  no  sight,  no  sound,  to  tell  if  they  are  there — if 
anything  is  to  reward  her  search?  She  cannot  shout  or  signal 
them;  she  can  do  nothing  but  patiently  grope,  and  feel,  and 
stumble,  and  climb  inch  by  inch  over  her  painful  way,  hold¬ 
ing  by  rocks,  clinging  to  sea-weed,  reaching  over  deep  pools, 
stooping  and  holding  her  breath  under  each  torrent  of  foam¬ 
ing  water  from  each  crash  of  the  breakers.  A  little  way  fur¬ 
ther  she  proceeds,  the  thick  white  froth  covering  her  black 
drenched  clothes,  her  long,  dripping,  clinging  tresses  like 
snow,  and  then  the  little  figure — looking  scarcely  human,  save 
for  the  great  dark,  longing,  passionate  eyes  looking  out  of  the 
.white  face,  and  the  bl^ck  shining  hair  streaming  from  the 
waves — clings  to  the  oily,  swaying  sea-weeds,  and  tries  to 
clamber  up. 

But  her  swollen,  bleeding  hands  will  not  hold  the  slippery 
fringes  tightly — they  break  away  again  and  again  from  her 
hands;  the  cold  is  benumbing  her,  the  waves  are  deafening 
and  blinding  her;  and  at  length,  with  a  piercing  scream  of 
agonised  impatience,  pain,  and  despair,  she  falls  prostrate  on 
the  rocks  below,  gazing  up  at  the  hidden  recesses  beyond  her 
sight  and  reach.  She  gazes  up,  pondering  in  her  dizzy  bewild¬ 
erment,  cold,  and  weakness,  whether  she  must  die  there,  after 
all — gazes  up,  and  sees,  looking  down  upon  her,  over  the 
ledges  of  rock  and  sea-weed,  Stephen  Tredennick’s  face. 

He  sees  her,  disbelieving  what  he  sees  ;  he  stares,  pushing 
back  his  wet  hair  from  his  haggard  face  with  a  tremor  of  fear 
that  the  delirium  of  cold,  hunger,  and  exhaustion  is  stealing 
over  his  senses.  He  sees  her  rise  to  her  feet,  and  point  to 
the  rope  around  her  waist,  and  the  gentle,  womanly  lips  seem 
to  utter  words,  though  he  can  hear  no  voice.  And  then  other 

13 


194  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

faces  look  down  upon  her,  and  tlie  dark,  cavernous  rocks  of 
Tregarthen  Head  re-echo  with  wild  shouts — hoarse,  gasping 
hurrahs,  and  frantic  screams  of  gladness,  relief,  hope,  and 
welcome. 

They  fling  themselves  down,  scramble  down,  tumble  down 
in  any  manner — eight  gaunt,  wounded,  pallid,  half-naked 
men,  with  their  captain,  Stephen  Tredennick — and  they 
almost  overwhelm,  in  their  wild  gratitude,  delight,  and  admi¬ 
ration,  the  poor,  little,  trembling,  womanly  form  that  the  sea 
has  well-nigh  overwhelmed  already. 

“A  woman!  A  woman!  Come  with  a  rope!  Oh,  may 
the  Lord  bless  her  brave  heart!  A  little  lass  come  with  the 
rope  to  save  us,  captain!  How  did  ye  get  to  us?  Give  us  a 
touch  o’  your  hand!  Cut  and  bleeding!  Cut  sore  and  deep, 
your  bonny  little  hands!  Lord  bless  you!  Who  are  you? 
Are  you  a  spirit  or  a  woman?  ” 

Death  staring  them  in  the  face  had  not  wrung  a  tear  from 
their  eyes,  or  broken  the  brave  spirits  in  those  sinewy, 
weather-beaten  frames;  but  before  the  sight  of  a  woman’s 
heroic  daring  and  devotedness,  risking  her  weak  life  for 
theirs,  they  sobbed  and  groaned,  kissing  her  bleeding  hands, 
wringing  the  weight  of  moisture  from  her  dripping  clothes, 
blessing  her,  and  begging  for  her  name,  for  their  wives’  and 
mothers’  prayers  to  the  end  of  their  lives. 

And  Stephen  Tredennick  re-echoed  their  passionate  de¬ 
mand. 

“Who  are  you?  Who  are  you?” 

She  unfastened  the  flat  tin  case  of  brandy  strapped  to  .her 
side  before  she  answered  him,*  and  held  it  to  a  suffering-look¬ 
ing  man’s  lips  who  was  crouching,  bent  double  with  pain. 

“The  Captain  first,  thank  you — Lord  love  you!  ”  poor  Jack 
said,  faintly  putting  the  flask  aside  for  which  his  sunken  eyes 
glistened. 

“No,  no,  Symons  my  poor  fellow!”  And  Stephen 
Tredennick’s  hand  along  with  Winnie’s  guided  the  reviving- 
draught  to  the  man’s  pinched  blue  lips.  In  a  moment  the 
magnetism  of  touch  realized  the  truth  of  what  the  Captain 
had  persuaded  himself  was  the  wild  delusion  of  his  perturbed 
imagination.  “Is  it — is  it  Winnie  Caerlyon?  ”  he  asked,  his 
worn,  weather-beaten  face  lighting  up  with  a  flash  of  incred¬ 
ulous  delight  and  anxiety.  “Am  I  wrong?  You  were  Win¬ 
nie  Caerlyon  when  I  knew  you  years  ago?  ” 

“I  am  Winifred  Caerlyon,  sir,”  she  said,  turning  away  a 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  195 

little  from  the  ardent  hope  and  pleasure  in  the  kind  dark 
eyes,  so  sunken  and  encircled  with  lines. 

It  was  the  same  words,  the  same  meek  tones  and  gesture, 
the  same  gentle  little  white  wistful  face,  that  had  appealed, 
to  the  brave  sailor’s  tender  heart  the  first  time  he  ever  saw 
and  spoke  to  her,  patiently  sheltering  herself,  after  her  pa¬ 
troness’s  abrupt  dismissal  from  her  presence,  in  the  old  serv¬ 
ants’ room;  it  was  something  like  the  same  dress  too,  this 
long  clinging  gown  of  black,  her  beautiful  long  hair  stream¬ 
ing  below  her  waist,  half  wet,  half  blown  into  wild  curls. 
Yes;  she  was  unchanged  after  all  these  years,  little  Winnie 
— his  dear  little  Winnie  Caerlyon — whom  he  had  loved  and 
pitied  from  the  first  moment,  as  a  strong,  kind,  gentle-hearted 
man  loves  a  fair,  winning,  delicate  little  child,  until  the  deep, 
peculiar,  passionate  womanly  nature  touched  the  manly  heart, 
awaking  interest,  admiration,  and  chivalrous  pity. 

In  the  long,  long  years  that  had  ensued,  in  lonely  night 
watches  and  solitary  musings  on  bygone  things,  Stephen 
Tredennick  had  told  himself  with  a  sigh  that  he  had  had 
one  chance  of  his  old  romantic  fancy’s  being  realized,  one 
chance  of  that  dear  woman-love  and  woman-presence  in  the 
old  home  at  Tregarthen  which  he  had  looked  forward  to, 
sometimes  with  aching,  longing,  and  desire — one  chance  of 
the  sweet  home  joys  which  a  sailor  loves  so  dearly  and  quits 
so  often — and  that  he  had  lost  this  one  chance—  thrown  it 
away — let  it  slip  through  his  careless  fingers,  and  it  would 
never  more  be  his. 

Those  long-ago  hopes  and  wishes,  so  long  buried  that  they 
had  become  but  a  pleasantly  sad  memory,  were  aroused 
afresh  in  the  hearing  of  that  voice,  at  the  sight  of  the  dear 
little  womanly  face  he  had  never  once  hoped  to  see  again. 

“  I  might  have  known  it,”  he  said,  looking  earnestly  at  her. 
“  I  did  know  it;  ’but  I  could  not  believe  it.” 

And  now,  guided  by  Winnie  to  the  safe  place  for  ascent, 
the  rescued  men — each  one  revived  by  a  draught  of  the 
powerful  stimulant  from  the  case-bottle — directed,  encour¬ 
aged,  and  prepared  for  the  long  perilous  upward,  journey, 
were  brought  up  one  by  one — some  quite  safely,  others  meet¬ 
ing  with  accidents  of  a  slight  nature  on  the  way;  and  the 
shouts  of  rejoicing  that  greeted  each  arrival  could  be  heard 
above  the  roar  of  the  waters  baffled  of  their  prey. 

The  last  of-the  eight  sailors  had  gone  up  out  of  their  sight, 
and  Stephen  Tredennick  and  Winnie  Caerlyon  were  left 
alone — alone — shut  out  from  all  the  world — beyond  the  reach, 


396 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MORNING. 


for  the  time,  of  all  earthly  presences  or  influences — that  slen¬ 
der  rope,  which  would  come  down  with  its  weighted  slip¬ 
knots  presently,  swaying  in  the  wind,  their  sole  mode  of 
communication  with  the  land  where  their  fellow- creatures 
lived — alone  on  the  Black  Reef  of  Tregarthen,  with  hundreds 
of  feet  of  frowning  crags  above  them,  and  behind  them  the 
rising  tide  of  the  wild  sea,  and  the  black,  battered  hulk  of 
the  ill-fated  Chittoor, 

“  Winnie,  I  thought  you  were  in  America,”  he  said,  gazing 
at  her,  almost  doubting  the  possibility  of  her  identity.  “How 
did  you  come  here  to  save  our  lives?  ” 

“  I  have  been  at  home  for  a  week,  sir,”  she  answered,  sim¬ 
ply;  “and  I  came  down  because  poor  Will  Treglyn,  who  at¬ 
tempted  to  descend  first,  was  badly  hurt.  There  was  no  one 
else.  I  was  not  afraid — not  much — and  my  weight  was  light 
on  the  rope.” 

“No  one  else  but  you!”  he  echoed,  with  kindling  eyes. 
“No  one  else  with  your  pure  heart  and  brave  spirit,  I  am 
sure;  but  they  might  have  found  some  one  else  whose  weight 
might  have  been  heavier  on  the  rope,  but  whose  bodily  frame 
would  have  been  better  able  to  endure  exposure  and  hard¬ 
ship  than  this  poor  little  one,”  he  said,  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  trying  to  shelter  the  drenched  shivering  form.  “You 
knew  what  ship’s  crew  it  was  that  were  wrecked?  ” 

“  Yes,  the  stern,  with  the  name  painted  on  it,  was  washed 
in  this  morning.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  he  said,  his  brow  darkening  sadly;  “  my  gallant 
old  Chittoor .  I’ll  never  tread  a  plank  of  her  again — my 
poor  old  beauty!  ”  the  sailor  groaned,  his  voice  shaking,  and 
the  tears  blinding  his  eyes  as  he  turned  to  gaze  at  the  shape¬ 
less  heap  of  tempest-riven  planks,  beating  to  atoms  on  the 
sharp  rocks.  “  I  never  thought  to  part  company  from  her 
like  that!  I  feel  as  if  I  had  done  wrong,  to.be  standing  here 
"safe  and  sound,  and  my  brave  ship,  that  has  carried  me 
through  wind  and  weather  these  ten  years  and  more,  gone  to 
her  doom!  But  no  mortal  power  could  have  saved  her.  I 
never  left  her  until  she  was  parting  amidships  at  five  o’clock 
this  mortiing — the  second  mate  and  myself  and  poor  Symons. 
He  was  hurt — one  of  his  ribs  crushed,  I  think— and  we  had 
to  hold  him  on  the  couple  of  planks  and  hencoops  we  had 
lashed  together.” 

“And  where  are  all  the  rest?”  Winnie  asked,  fearfully. 

“I  cannot  tell,”  Stephen  Tredennick  said,  gloomily.  “One 
boat’s  crew  pushed  off  as  soon  as  she  struck — at  three  o’clock 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOKNING. 


197 


— and  were  swamped  in  a  few  minutes;  they  went  down 

before  my  eyes — ten  or  eleven  men.  The  next  boat  was 

stove  in  as  they  tried  to  launch  her.  Then  another  boat’s 
crew  started— fifteen,  I  think — and  we  lost  sight  of  them  in 
the  darkness  in  an  instant;  they  were  lost  too,  I  dare  say. 

And  then,  when  the  ship  was  going  to  pieces,  the  rest 

jumped  over  with  spars,  oars,  or  anything  they  could  lay 
hold  of.  Six  of  them  got  in  here  before  the  mate,  Symons, 
and. myself — the  rest  all  perished.  Fifty  of  my  men  and  my 
ship  gone — the  Chittoor  and  nearly  all  my  poor  fellows!  We 
were  short  of  hands,  too,  or  there  would  have  been  twelve 
more  gone;  and  I — I  was  spared!”  he  groaned,  bitterly. 

“  Captain  Tredennick,”  Winnie  said,  gravely,  “are  you  dis¬ 
pleased  with  Heaven  for  sparing  your  life?” 

“No,”  he  returned,  moodily,  leaning  on  the  wet  rock  be¬ 
side  her,  “I  am  not  ungrateful  to  Heaven  or  to  you;  but,  if 
I  could  have  saved  my  men  and  my  ship,  I  would  have  been 
willing  never  to  see  the  sun  shine  as  it  is  shining  over  us 
now!” 

“  I  think,”  objected  Winnie,  striving  to  speak  calmly  with 
the  greatest  difficulty,  “  that  you  ought  to  remember — before' 
you  speak  so — what  the  loss  of  your  life  would  be  to  others 
— what  it  would  be  to  see  you  washed  in  like — like — one  of 
the  poor  fellows’  corpses  this  morning.  What  would  it  be  to 
your  aunt — the  poor  old  lady — Madam  Vivian — to  Lady 
Mountrevor,  who  loves  you  as  if  you  were  her  own  brother?” 

“  True  enough,  Winnie,”  he  returned,  but  without  raising 
his  head;  “  but,  my  dear,  you  don’t  know  how  badly  a  sailor 
feels  such  a  thing  as  that  which  has  happened  to  me.” 

“  I  think  I  can  imagine  it,  Captain  Tredennick,”  she  said, 
gently,  and  spoke  never  a  word  more  in  her  mute  sympathy, 
standing  patiently  beside  him,  whilst  the  cold  March  wind 
chilled  her  through  every  vein  and  nerve,  and  the  cold  salt 
moisture  dripped  icily  from  her  wet  hair  and  dress  over  her 
shuddering  limbs. 

“  Here  is  the  rope  at  last!  ”  he  exclaimed  rousing  himself 
from  his  painful  thoughts.  “  My  poor  child,  you  must  be 
frozen!  ” 

He  took  the  great  double  noose  to  slip  it  over  her  shoul¬ 
ders;  but  the  poor  little  benumbed  hands  held  his  in 
resistance. 

“  Captain  Tredennick,  you  must  go  first — you  must!  ”  she 
said,  passionately.  “  They  are  waiting,  longing  every  mo¬ 
ment  to  see  your  face.  Poor  Lady  Mildred  is  waiting,  pray- 


198  all  in  the  wild  march  morning. 

ing,  hoping,  and  dreading;  you.  must  go  first — oh,  you  must 
— oh,  please  leave  me  behind  until  the  next  time!”  poor 
Winnie  entreated,  with  convulsive  sobs,  feeling  her  strength 
going,  her  limbs  failing,  an  icy  chill  helplessness  creeping 
over  her  very  soul,  it  seemed  to  her,  and  dreading  lest 
Stephen  Tredennick’s  determination  should  prevail,  and  that 
after  all  he  might  be  left  to  death  and  danger. 

“And  leave  you!”  he  cried,  his  face  flushing.  “How 
many  more  lives  are  to  be  lost,  and  I  saved?  Your  life,  too, 
— wet,  chilled,  benumbed,  fainting  almost  as  you  are!  Win¬ 
nie,  what  do  you  think  of  my  manhood  that  you  could  pro¬ 
pose  such  a  brutally  selfish  course  to  me?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  cannot — I  cannot — I  will  not  leave  you  here!  ”  she 
said,  her  broken  voice  rising  to  a  faint  scream  of  despairing 
entreaty,  as  he  adjusted  the  ropes  around  her,  and  lifted  her 
in  his  arms  to  the  flat  rock,  over  which  the  rising  tide  was 
beginning  to  ripple,  from  which  the  ascent  was  to  be  made. 
“Do  not  make  me  go  first!  I  would  rather  die!  And  I  can’t 
hold  the  rope,  my  arms  are  so  stiff,”  she  added,  unaware,  in 
her  grief  and  anxiety,  of  the  admission  she  had  made  of  her 
total  unfitness  to  be  left  by  herself. 

“  No,  you  cannot,”  he  affirmed,  in  perplexity;  “  you  would 
be  dashed  against  the  cliff,  and  your  limbs  broken,  cramped 
as  you  are.  What  am  I  to  do?  ” 

One  moment’s  consideration  and  then  he  stepped  on  to  the 
rock  beside  her,  and,  unloosing  the  rope  from  her  waist,  and 
with  sailor  dexterity  forming  with  it  a  second  slip-knot,  he 
replaced  the  first  one  round  Winnie,  and  the  second  beneath 
his  own  shoulders;  and  then  he  took  the  poor  little  fragile, 
shivering  form  in  his  strong  arms. 

“We  will  go  up  together,  Winnie. 

“  Oh,  we  can’t!  ”  she  cried,  in  terror.  “  The  rope  will 
break,  and  you  will  be  killed !” 

“And  you  will  not,  I  suppose?”  he  rejoined,  smiling  pity¬ 
ingly  and  tenderly.  “  We  must  risk  it,  Winnie,  dear.  I  do 
not  believe  we  could  reach  the  top  alone  in  safety.  I  saw 
how  it  was  when  Symons  went  up — he  got  some  terrible 
blows,  poor  fellow!  I  believe  the  risk  for  your  life  is  less  by 
my  going  with  you;  and,  if  we  are  to  die,  little  girl,”  said  he, 
huskily,  straining  her  close  to  his  breast,  “  we  will  die  to¬ 
gether.” 

In  the  face  of  this  ending  of  her  young  life  and  her  faith¬ 
ful  love  together,  poor  little  Winnie  Caerlyon  turned  with  a 
smile  to  Stephen  Tredennick  for  the  first  time — a  happy 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  199 

smile,  suffusing  her  pallid  face,  and  brightening  her  sunken, 
haggard  eyes.  _ 

“  And,  if  we  are  to  live — if  we  are  to  live — if  God  will  be 
so  good,”  he  resumed,  looking  up  to  Heaven  reverently,  “we 
will  live  together.  Winnie,  my  darling,  shall  we?  Our 
lives  belong  to  each  other  from  this  day,  I  think — do  they 
not,  my  little  girl?  Look  up  at  me,  my  brave  little  darling 
— who  risked  death  for  me  so  willingly,  and  say  that,  if  we 
live,  you  will  be  mine  on  earth,  and,  if  we  die,  you  will  be 
mine  in  Heaven!  ” 

Her  sight  was  fading,  her  senses  were  failing,  her  voice 
had  sunk  to  the  whisper  of  weakness. 

“  I  am  dying,”  she  thought;  “  I  may  promise  for  the  world 
beyond  the  grave;”  and,  with  her  face  resting  beneath  his, 
the  sweet  dark  eyes  gazing  upon  him,  the  touch  of  her  cold 
lips  to  his  cheek,  Winnie  Caerlyon  said,  “I  will.”  And  then 
the  fond  light  of  the  loving  eyes  went  out  in  darkness,  and 
the  last  flicker  of  life  in  the  white  face  faded  away. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

There  was  an  agitated  group  around  Miss  Trewhella, 
stretched  in  a  graceful  position  of  helpless  abandonment  on 
the  sofa  in  the  housekeeper’s  room,  her  arms  flung  out  at 
either  side,  her  eyes  closed. 

The  housemaid  was  vigorously  rubbing  the  right  hand,  the 
kitchenmaid  the  left;  whilst  Mrs.  Grose  held  a  huge  square 
bottle  of  salts  to  her  nose,  and  made  speedy  preparations  for 
drenching  the  fainting  lady  with  a  large  jugful  of  icy-cold 
water,  when  she  slowly  raised  her  eyelids,  and  faintly 
gasped — 

“A — a — gl-gl-ass — wi-wine,  ple-ase!  ” 

Old  Llanyon,  the  butler,  who  brought  the  wine,  regarding 
Miss  Tfewhella’s  emotion  with  the  eye  of  disfavor  which  he 
turned  upon  almost  every  deed  and  act  of  that  estimable  per¬ 
son’s,  stood  watching  her  sipping  the  wune  and  groaning  and 
sipping  again,  closing  her  eyes,  rousing  herself  up  to  groan 
again,  and  then  evincing  returning  symptoms  of  a  relapse 
into  insensibility,  until  he  could  endure  it  no  longer. 

“  What’s  the  matter  weth  the  wommun?  ”  he  demanded, 
irately.  “Be  shegoin’  to  faint,  or  be  she  goin’  to  recover,  or 
what  be  she  agoin’  to  do?  ” 


200 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


“  Oh,  whisht  ’e,  Mr.  Llanyon,”  the  housemaid  cried, 
reproachfully.  “  We  were  a-sittin’ here,  Mrs.  Grose  an’  me, 
making  up  th’  accounts  of  the  things  for  the  dinner-party, 
when  Miss  Trewhella  she  comes  in  wild-like,  weth  her  hands 
up;  and  she  fell  down  here  in  a  heap  ’longside  Mrs.  Grose; 
and  Mrs.  Grose  she  let  the  ink-bottle  fall,  and - ” 

“  What’s  the  matter  weth  her,  I  want  to  know?  ”  Llanyon 
demanded,  more  angrily.  “  Who’s  dead,  or  who’s  buried,  or 
whet’s  the  takin’  weth  her  that  she’s  sprankin’  and  groanin’ 
there  as  ef  she  were  out  of  the  ’sylum?  ” 

The  sufferer’s  insensibility  suddenly  terminated  at  these 
insulting  words. 

“  Thank  ’evin!”  Miss  Trewhella  cried,  sitting  bolt  upright 
so  suddenly  that  her  attendants  retreated  in  dismay,  and 
even  hardy  old  Llanyon  drew  back  a  step.  “  Thank  ’evin,  I 
say,  that  I’ve  not  got  the  hearts  of  some  people,  that  would 
eat,  and  drink,  and  go  in  and  out,  and  make  insulting  remarks 
upon  defenceless  creatures  lying  in  dead  faints,”  said  Miss 
Trewhella,  standing  up  very  stiff  and  straight,  and  “ fixing” 
old  Llanyon  with  her  fiery  hard  black  eyes,  “  when  every  one 
belonging  to  the  family  as  they  belongs  to  was  lying  dead 
and  drowned,  shipwrecked  and  murdered!  ”  Miss  Trewhella 
went  on,  gurgling  and  gasping,  and  leaning  her  head  back 
against  the  sharp  edge  of  a  shelf  in  an  affecting  manner. 
“Thank  ’evin  that  my  feelings,  when  I  hear  tell  of  corpses 
stretched  out  dead  and  drowned  of  the  family  that  I  serves, 
and  serves  faithful,  these  seventeen  years  and  a  quarter — 
that  my  feelings  is,  Mr.  Llanyon,  that  my  heart  stops  heatin’, 
and  my  blood  runs  cold  in  my  veins,  and  I  haven’t  the  power 
to  help  myself  from  looking  like  one  out  of  the  ’sylum,  or 
out  of  the  madhouse,  Mr.  Llanyon!” 

“  For  Heaven’s  sake,  whet  are  ’e  a-talkin’  of,  ’Lizabeth 
Trewhella?  ”  old  Llanyon  asked,  fearfully.  “  Who  is  dead 
belonging  to  the  family?” 

“  It’s  time  for  you  to  ask,”  Miss  Trewhella  retorted^  venge- 
fully;  “perhaps,  Mr.  Llanyon,  you  mightn’t  have  been  so 
ready  with  your  insults,  an’  your  abuse,  an’  your  calling  of 
names  to  a  respectable  girl,  when  her  mind’s  loaded  with 
distress,  and  her  head  ready  to  split  to  think  of  what’s  before 
her!  ” 

“  Oh,  ’Lizabeth,”  Mrs.  Grose  implored,  “  do  ’e  tell  us — 
there’s  a  good  girl — like  a  dear!  What  have  happened, 
’Lizabeth?  Who’s  dead?” 

“  Mrs.  Grose,  you’ve  a  heart  to  feel  for  me,  if  you  don’t 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


201 


feel  for  me  on  all  occasions  as  I  could  wish,”  responded  Miss 
Trewhella.  “  I’ve  dreadful  and  awful  news  for  you,  Mrs. 
Grose — there’s  dreadful  news  for  the  family,  Mrs.  Grose— 
and  my  heart’s  nigh  breaking!  I  was  always  one  to  feel 
things  worse  than  any  one  else!  Oh,  Mrs.  Grose— Maria 
Jane,  my  dear,”  broke  out  Miss  Trewhella,  abandoning  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  shelf  for  the  sympathising  housemaid’s 
shoulder,  and  becoming  alarmingly  hysterical,  “how  can  I 
tell  ’e!  Don’t  ’e  ask  me — I  can’t  speak  of  it!  The  Captain 
— the  poor  Captain — he’s  dead — killed — drowned — a  dead 
corpse  down  there  on — the — the  seashore!  Maria  Jane,  hold 
me  up — I’m  go-ing!  ” 

“  Es  et  Cappun  Tredennick:  as  is  dead?”  old  Llanyon 
almost  shouted,  in  grief  and  horror.  “  ’Lizabeth  Trewhella, 
’e  er  not  goin’  to  tell  me  of  et.  The  Cappun — my  gallant 
gentleman!  Cappun  Stephen,  that  I  remember  as  a  hand¬ 
some  young  fellow — my  brave,  fine,  noble  gentleman!  Es  et 
drowned  dead  ’er  manes?”  he  demanded,  his  dialect  becom¬ 
ing  broader  each  instant,  in  his  terrible  agitation.  “Was  it 
our  Cappun’s  ship  that  was  lost?  ” 

At^the  moment  a  bell  rang  sharply. 

“  Oh;  good  lor,”  he  groaned,  sitting  down,  in  helpless  dis¬ 
may,  “  whet  are  us  to  do?  IIow  are  us  to  tell  poor  Madam?” 

“I’m  to  tell  her,  Mister  Llanyon,  if  you  please,”  Miss 
Trewhella  said,  witheringly;  “  I’m  to  be  the  one — and  the 
only  one  fit  and  proper  to  tell  my  lady,  after  seventeen 
years  and  a  quarter.  I’m  aware  of  the  proper  and  only 
method  of  breaking  afflicting  intelligence,  Mister  Llanyon,” 
she  went  on,  with  contemptuous  self-possession.  “  It  isn’t 
likely  that  persons  as  have  no  proper  feeling,  nor  knowledge 
of  the  weakness  of  a  delicate  person’s  nerves,  could  attempt 
to  meddle  with  such  a  situation.  Perhaps  you  would  be 
kind  enough  to  give  me  another  spoonful — the  least  spoonful 
— of  wine,  Mrs.  Grose.  I  don’t  know  as  I  shall  be  able  to 
get  through  it  without  fainting  again.” 

“Oh,  Providence,  look  down  on  us!  ”  old  Llanyon  groaned, 
quite  unconvinced  by  Miss  Trewhella’s  self-possesScd  assur¬ 
ances.  “These  es  a  dark  day.  It’ll  be  the  death  of  the 
poor  mistress,  the  death  of  the  master,  you  may  lay — an’ 
theer’s  an  end  to  the  ould  house  an’  the  Treden nicks  o’ 
Tregarthen!  ” 

******  * 

The  blinds  were  half  drawn,  and  the  warm  rich  glow  of  the 
fire-light  illuminated  the  large  room,  with  its  soft  green  dra* 


202  ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

peries,  its  black  polished  woods,  and  dead  gold  frames  and 
mouldings,  more  brightly  and  pleasantly  than  the  dull,  cold 
gray  light  and  occasional  gleams  of  glaring  sunlight  of  the 
cold  wild  March  day  outside.  Madam  Vivian  lay  on  her  little 
velvet  chaise  longue ,  drawn  between  the  fire  and  the  window. 
She  had  been  dozing,  for  her  crimson  Indian  shawl,  with  its 
gold  bordering,  lay  across  her  feet  and  her  cashmere  morn¬ 
ing-robe,  and  a  copy  of  Elia's  Essays ,  bound  in  cream  col¬ 
oured  calf  and  gold,  lay  half-open  beside  her,  dropped  from 
her  languid  hand. 

“Oh,  Trewhella!”  she  said,  looking  surprised — “I  rang 
for  Llanyon!  Why  do  you  attend  the  drawing-room  bell? 
I  want  some  iced  lemonade.  I  hope  the  refrigerator  is  in 
proper  order — the  last  was  not  very  successful.  I  am  very 
thirsty,  and  a  little  feverish,  I  think,  and  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  have  some.  There  are  lemons,  of  course,  in  the  store¬ 
room?  ” 

Even  Elizabeth  Trewhella’s  selfish  importance  and  vulgar 
eagerness  for  the  excitement  of  telling  her  dreadful  news 
gave  way  to  silent  fear  and  pity  for  her  mistress’s  terrible 
unconsciousness  and  her  interest  about  the  trifles  of  her  daily 
life,  whilst  the  sword  of  a  Damocles  trembled  as  it  were  to 
the  fall  that  would  pierce  her  to  the  heart. 

“  Oh,  yes,-  Madam,  there  are  lemons!  But  you’ll  excuse 
me,  Madam,  if  I  can’t  think  of  anything  but  the  dreadful 
grief  that’s  come  on  us  all!  ”  she  burst  out,  rather  bungling 
her  “proper  and  only  method.”  “  I’ve  been  in  a  dead  faint 
since  I  heard  it,  with  the  cook  and  housemaid  supporting  of 
me,  and  I  wouldn’t  let  one  come  near  you  but  myself,  Madam, 
though  I  was  hardly  able  to  walk  upstairs,  for  fear  they 
would  frighten  you  to  death!  ” 

“What  is  it?  What  has  happened?  ”  Madam  cried,  strug¬ 
gling  to  her  feet.  “  What  ails  you,  Trewhella?  You  are 
frightening  me  to  death!  Oh,  it  is  Lady  Mildred!  Some¬ 
thing  has  happened  to  her  on  the  cliffs!  ” 

“  Oh,  it  isn’t  L.ady  Mildred,  Madam,  but  it’s  on  the  cliffs  the 
dreadful  accident  has  happened,”  Trewhella  gasped,  making 
a  terrifying  display  of  wringing  her  hands,  swaying  from 
side  to  side,  and  rolling  her  head  about  distractedly.  “It  isn’t 
that  it’s  an  accident  exactly,  but — but — it  happened  last  night 
in  the  wreck,  Madam.  Little  we  thought,  and  we  all  in  our 
beds!  ” 

“  Of  what?  What  happened  at  the  wreck?  ”  Madam  Vivian 
asked,  slowly,  her  face  fading  into  an  ashen-gray  deadly  hue. 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


203 

“  Oh,  Madam,  dear,  don’t  take  on  so  dreadful!”  Miss 
Trewhella  cried,  frantically  snatching  at  an  essence-bottle 
and  a  fan.  “  Sit  down  in  your  chair  and  let  mb  give  you  a 
drop  of  sherry — just  a  spoonful,  Madam;  you’re  like  death, 
and  I  know,  to  my  sorrow,  what  it  is  to  have  weak  nerves.” 

“  Trewhella!  ”  the  old  lady  called,. striking  her  hand  fiercely 
on  the  table  beside  her,  “  speak  out  this  instant — without  a 
word  of.  prevarication!  What  happened  at  the  wreck? 
What  is  it  that  is  so  dreadful  as  to  frighten  me  to  death? 
Whose  ship  was  it?  ” 

She  whispered  the  last  words  hoarsely  in  her  anguish,  and 
Trewhella,  over-awed  and  unnerved,  burst  into  noisy  sobs 
and  tears. 

“I  can’t  tell  you,  Madam!  It’s- — it’s  too — too  dreadful!  I 
said  it  would  break  your  heart — and  Llanyon  abusing  and 
scolding  of  me  for — for  fainting,  as  if  I  could  help  it  when 
— when  I  heard  of  the  poor — dear — Captain — dead  and 
drowned — oh,  oh,  oh!  ” 

The  next  instant  Miss  Trewhella’s  shrieks,  in  good  earnest, 
were  resounding  through  the  house.  Madam  Vivian’s  limbs 
had  given  way  beneath  her,  and,  whilst  her  maid  was  scream¬ 
ing,  she  had  fallen  heavily  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Madam  Vivian’s  maid  summoned  assistance,  and  was  re¬ 
lieved  to  find  that  her  mistress  was  not  dead.  The  shock 
was  only  temporary  in  its  effect  on  her  system,  yet  sound  and 
strong  from  her  magnificent  constitution;  and,  after  a  little 
while,  she  sat  up,  pallid,  haggard,  trembling,  an  agony  of 
bereaved  pain  thrilling  her  through  and  through,  and  making 
her  white  lips  parched,  and  her  tearless  eyes  burn  like  fire. 
But  she  was  strong  to  suffer,  determined,  proud,  and  self- 
willed  yet. 

“Bring  me  a  warm  mantle  and  bonnet,”  she  said  to  her 
maid;  and,  a  momentary  hesitation  on  her  part  evoking  a 
haughtily-impatient  glance  and  an  imperious  “  Do  you  tear?  ” 
Miss  Trewhella  was  obliged,  in  amazement  and  alarm,  speedily 
to  obey  the  command. 

“  Give  me  your  arm,  Llanyon,”  she  said  to  her  old  faithful 
man-servant.  “  Your  nerves  render  you  unfit  for  anything,” 


204 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MABCH  MORNING. 


she  remarked,  coldly  scornful  as  she  turned  away  from  her 
maid’s  proffered  assistance.  “  I  don’t  want  to  hear  people 
shrieking  and  screaming  in  my  ears.  My  sorrow  is  my  own, 
and  no  one  else  can  share  it,”  the  proud  old  woman  said,  re¬ 
pulsing  the  idea  of  others’  endeavouring  to  pity  or  understand 
her  heart-griefs. 

Poor  old  Llanyon  was  afraid  to  betray  his  own  bitter  re¬ 
gret,  and  kept  wiping  away  the  tears  that  trickled  down  his 
withered  cheeks  silently  and  cautiously  with  his  right  hand, 
while  he  respectfully  held  the  left  hand  and  arm  to  assist  Lis 
mistress  as  they  hurried  on  through  the  cold  March  wind  and 
bleak  flitting  sunshine  towards  Tregarthen  Head  and  the 
ominous  crowd  gathered  on  its  summit. 

“  What  are  they  all  doing  up  there?  What  are  they  all 
about?”  she  demanded,  impatient  and  wrathful  in  her  sup¬ 
pressed  pain. 

“They — they — I  suppose  they’re  looking  at — oh,  Madam, 
Madam!  ”  The  old  man  broke  down  with  a  choking  sob. 

“Hush,  hush!  ”  his  mistress  said,  clutching  him  fiercely  by 
the  arm.  “  Command  yourself,  I  tell  you  !  Do  you  wish  me 
to  break  down  now?  Do  you  think  that  I  am  not  making 
mysplf  keep  up  until - ” 

Words  failed  her,  but  her  indomitable  will  pushed  forward 
her  trembling  limbs,  all  unused  to  any  exercise;  and,  fight¬ 
ing  with  her  throbbing  heart,  her  distressed  lungs,  her  aching 
muscles,  she  walked  swiftly  up  the  hill  against  the  wind, 
without  a  pause  for  breath,  until  she  reached  the  outskirts  of 
the  thick  crowd. 

No  one  had  noticed  her  coming — it  hardly  noticed  her 
now,  that  absorbed,  talking,  gesticulating,  exclaiming,  staring, 
pushing,  struggling  crowd  of  men,  women,  boys,  and  girls,  all 
looking  seaward. 

“They’re  cornin’!  They’re  cornin’!  ” 

The  words  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  at  first  in  a  con¬ 
fused  hum  of  eager  voices,  gradually  rising  in  a  tide  of 
excitement,  until  a  great  wave  of  roaring  cheers,  shouts,  and 
outcries  swelled  above  the  crashing  of  the  rough  waves 
below;  and,  in  spite  of  themselves,  Madam  Vivian  and  her 
old  servant  found  themselves  borne  in  and  hurried  forward, 
jostled  and  pushed  by  people  who  seemed  half  mad  with 
anxiety  and  eagerness,  towards  the  summit  of  the  Head. 

“  What  are  they  about?  How  dare  they  push  me  in  this 
manner?  What  is  all  the  cheering  for?  Ask  them,  Llanyon. 
Do  you  hear?  What  are  you  staring  at,  like  the  rest?  ” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


205 

“What  es  et  all  about?  What  are  ye  cheering  for?” 
Llanyon  asked  a  man  rushing  past.  “  Do  ye  see  wheer  ye’re 
going?  Look  at  JVIadam  Vivian,  man!  ” 

“  I  beg  eer  pardon,  my  lady,”  the  man  said,  touching  his 
cap,  but  pushing  on,  with  a  broad  grin  on  his  flushed  face, 
all  the  time — “they’re  cheering  for  the  sailors — rshe  have 
saaved  ’em!  Miss  Winnie  Caerlyon — that  little  white-faced 
maid  as  you  wuddent  think  could  clem  a  wall — she’s  been 
and  gone  down  that  cliff — raight  over  the  Head,  my  lady!  ” 
He  restrained  himself  with  evident  difficulty  until  he  got  a 
yard  past  Madam  Vivian,  and  then  his  throat  opened  in  an¬ 
other  cheer,  joining  the  chorus  of  cheers  that  fairly  deafened 
the  ear. 

“The  sailors!  The  sailors!  The  sailors  and  Winnie 
Caerlyon!  ”  Madam  cried  aloud,  in  the  rage  of  her  grief  and 
uncertainty.  “Why  did  I  come  here?  Llanyon,  take  me 
out  of  this  yelling  crowd,  and  bring  me  some  respectable 
person — Lieutenant  Caerlyon-  -any  one  that  I  can  ask  a 
question  of.  Why  did  I  come?  Listen  to  their  cheers! 
How  dare  they?  How  dare  they,  if — if — the  Captain  is  not 
safe!  Llanyon,  do  you  hear  me?  This  yelling  and  shouting 
will  drive  me  mad!  ” 

But  poor  old  Llanyon’s  efforts  to  release  himself  and  his 
mistress  from  the  pressure  of  the  crowd  were  somewhat  un¬ 
availing,  and  at  length,  worn  out  with  struggling,  emotion, 
and  excitement,  Madam  was  obliged  to  pause,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  rough  upright  granite  boulders  that  strewed  the 
Head. 

“Here  she  is!  Here  she  is!  Bray-vo!  ”  roared  the  crowd. 
“  Did  ’e  ever  hear  tell  o’  the  like?  The  little  maid— the 
Leftenant’s  daughter!  ” 

A  crimson  spot  was  on  Madam’s  white  cheeks,  an  angry 
glitter  in  her  tearless  eyes,  though  her  breath  came  in  sobs. 

“  Did  I  come  here  to  listen  to  Winnie  Caerlyon’s  wonder¬ 
ful  achievements?”  she  said  aloud,  in  scorn.  “Will  you 
answer  me,  please,”  she  asked  of  a  miner  near  her — “  if  any¬ 
body  is  of  importance  beside  Miss  Winnie  Caerlyon — bave 
the  crew  of  the  Chittoor  been  saved?  ” 

“  ’Es,  Madam,”  he  answered — “  some  ov  ’em — she  saaved 
’em — the  young  maid— the  Leftenant’s  daughter — have  ’e 
heard  tell,  Madam?” 

“Will  you  answer  me  properly?”  Madam  Vivian  said, 
almost  frenzied.  “What  is  Winnie  Caerlyon  to  me?  How 


206 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


dare  you!  Where  is  the  Captain  of  the  Chittoor  while  you 
are  yelling  over  the  sailors  and  Winnie  Caerlyon?  ” 

Abashed  'and  frightened  by  her  anger^  the  poor  “  kibble 
lander  ”  from  Tolgooth  mines  could  only  point  his  finger 
towards  the  sea. 

“ Theer,  Madam — him  and  Winnie  Caerlyon!” 

“  Him  and  Winnie  Caerlyon!  ”  Madam  shrieked,  feeling 
that  a  few  minutes  more  of  this  agonised  suspense  and  con¬ 
fusion  would  of  a  surety  drive  her  senses  astray,  when  the 
crowd  caught  the  words,  and  re-echoed  them  in  stormy  shouts 
of  rejoicing. 

“Him  and  Winnie  Caerlyon!  Captain  Tredennick  an’  the 
Leftenant’s  daughter!  Lor’  bless  ’em!  Here  they  are!” 

In  his  exultation,  relief,  and  delight  old  Llanyon  found 
himself,  regardless  of  every  rule  of  propriety  and  etiquette, 
dragging  his  mistress  forward,  and  ere  Madam  could  pause 
to  question  or  rebuke  again,  she  was  standing  beside  the 
holders  of  the  rope,  who,  with  sweating  brows  and  muscles 
strained  like  cordage,  were  gradually  drawing  it  up.  Presently 
before  her  eyes — between  her  and  the  stretch  of  tossing  gray 
sea,  the  wild  white  manes  of  the  rushing  swirling  waves,  and 
the  lowering  sullen  mists — as  if  they  had  arisen  from  the 
ocean  depths,  she  saw  two  figures. 

She  saw  them,  and,  amidst  her  unspeakable  joy  and  glad¬ 
ness,  a  sharp  spasm  contracted  her  heart.  Stephen  Treden¬ 
nick,  her  beloved  nephew,  whose  face  she  thought  she  never 
more  would  see,  standing,  tail,  erect,  and  strong,  on  the  earth, 
amongst  living  men,  was  before  her;  but  close  beneath  his 
was  a  white  soft  womanly  face,  and  tightly  clasped  to  his 
breast  a  slender,  yielding,  helpless  woman’s  form. 

“ Stephen — Stephen,  my  boy!”  Madam  broke  forth  in  a 
tremulous  cry  with  outstretched  arms,  her  affection  putting 
aside  .all  else. 

But  he  never  saw  or  heard  her;  he  responded  to  his  cousin 
Mildred’s  glad  fond  welcome  hastily  and  tenderly,  but  he 
never  looked  a  few  feet  beyond,  where  stood  his  aunt,  Madam 
Vivian. 

“  Oh,  Mildred,  I  am  afraid  she  is  hurt!  ”  he  said,  unclasp¬ 
ing  the  silent,  nerveless  figure,  and  kneeling  beside  it  on  the 
sod.  “  She  is  quite  insensible!  Oh,  Mildred,  it  has  cost  her 
her  life!  ” 

His  face  and  voice  were  full  of  anguish;  he  heeded  noth¬ 
ing  else  but  the  object  of  his  grief. 

’  .  “  And  it  is  for  this,”  Madam  Vivian  exclaimed,  in  bitter- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING,  207 

ness  of  spirit,  “that  Stephen  Tredennick  has  returned  to  his 
home!  ” 


CHAPTER  XXXI.  . 

The  fatal  storm  of  that  wild  March  morning  had  long 
passed  away,  the  bright  sunshine  fretted  with  molten  silver 
all  the  great  blue  shield  of  ocean,  the  warm  southerly  breeze 
blew  soft  over  Tregarthen  Head,  stirring  the  summer  grass 
growing  green  and  deep  in  sheltered  hollows,  and  the  sum¬ 
mer  dews  fell  softly  on  the  daisied  sod  of  the  shipwrecked 
sailors’  graves  in  Trewillian  churchyard. 

The  weight  of  regret  and  sorrow  that  their  death  had  laid 
so  heavily  on  the  kind  heart  of  their  Captain  had  been  light¬ 
ened,  it  is  true,  for  the  second  crew  of  fifteen  which  had 
quitted  the  sinking  ship,  after  unspeakable,  hardship  and 
danger,  had  battled  triumphantly  with  wind  and  sea  through 
the  terrible  hours  of  darkness,  and  at  day-break  found  them¬ 
selves  eight  miles  off,  driving  in  on  a  smooth  lee-shore.  The 
boat  was  stove  in  as  they  went  aground,  but  the  men  all 
escaped  with  life,  and,  making  their  way  to  Tregarthen,  the 
whole  number  of  the  saved — three-and-twenty — were  lodged, 
fed,  and  cared  for — some  in  Tregarthen  House  itself,  some  in 
the  village — until  they  were  able  to  travel  to  London  and 
receive  their  wages  from  the  merchants  with  whom  Captain 
Tredennick  was  in  partnership. 

The  ship  and  cargo  were  fully  insured,  and  the  owners  had 
sustained  no  loss;  but  with  the  wreck  of  his  beloved  C/rittoor 
had  ended  Stephen  Tredennick's  seafaring  life. 

“I  knew  every  plank  in  her  deck,  every  scratch  and  mark; 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  knew  every  rope  and  seam  iu  her  can¬ 
vas,  "and  I  don’t  feel  as  if  I  should  care  to  begin  learning 
such  things  all  over  again,”  he  said,  despondently,  to  Lady 
Mountrevor;  “besides — besides,  Millie,  you  know,  I  could, 
not  go  away  anywhere  now,  not  if  my  daily  bread  depended 
on  it!  ” 

“No,  no,  of  course  not,”  she  replied. 

They  were  speaking  in  undertones,  and  the  faces  of  both 
were  downcast  and  weary. 

“  Mildred,  isn’t  she  any  better  ?  ” 

He  had  asked  the  question  so  often  during  these  weeks 


208 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


of  sorrowful  anxiety,  and  she  had  had  so  little  variation  for 
reply,  that  her  lips  had  grown  tired,  and  her  heart  despairing, 
in  the  accustomed  sorrowful  answer,  “  She  is  no  better, 
Stephen.” 

Lady  Mildred’s  brilliant  eyes  darkened  with  tears  now,  as 
she  slightly  changed  the  formula  of  her  response. 

“  Stephen  dear,  I  am  afraid  that  she  will  never  be  any  better. 
There  is  no  use  in  denying  it.  The  doctors  think  so,  too.” 

“  She  ”  over  whom  the  dreary  fiat  was  uttered  was  lying  in 
the  adjoining  chamber,  a  large  ai;*y  pleasant  room  on  the  first 
floor  in  Tregarthen  House,  surrounded  by  all  that  love  and 
care  could  desire  or  wealth  purchase.  The  downy  satin  cov¬ 
erlet  and  snowy  linen  on  the  beautiful  little  silk-draped  French 
bed,  the  noiseless  carpets,  the  bouquets  of  flowers,  the  little 
fountain  of  fresh  delicious  perfume,  with  its  tiny  jet  of  cool 
spray  and  its  twinkle  of  silvery  drops,  the  superb  crimson 
strawberries  and  hot-house  peaches,  with  their  crystal  dishes 
resting  on  ice;  the  ebony  reading-stand,  with  its  open  maga¬ 
zines  and  sheets  of  engravings — all  that  love  and  wealth 
could  give  her  was  hers  ere  she  could  ask  or  want;  but  all 
gifts  and  endeavours  and  achievements  stopped  short  here  in 
this  luxurious  shaded  room,  with  its  dainty  satin-covered 
couch,  fit  for  a  French  marquise . 

The  spacious,  elegant  chamber,  with  its  tinted  draperies 
and  rose-strewn  carpet,  its  flowers,  and  fruit,  and  pictures, 
and  ornaments,  w^as  after  all  but  an  invalid’s  narrow  world — 
a  luxurious,  carefully-guarded,  silent,  shadowy  prison,  from 
which  fond,  sad  hearts  and  tender  hands  could  not  set  her 
free,  into  which  they  could  not  bring  one  wild  fresh  breath,  of 
health  and  strength;  they  could  not  set  her  on  her  feet 
amongst  the  early  summer  flowers  and  the  waving  summer 
trees,  out  on  the  grassy  lawns  and  pleasant  shady  paths,  to 
rejoice  as  they  did  in  the  breeze  and  the  sunshine  of  May, 
and  the  song  of  the  lark,  whose  trills  of  ecstasy  for  light  and 
life  and  love  floated  into  the  quiet  chamber  on  the  breath  of 
summer  air  that  stirred  the  white  transparent  curtains  about 
her  bed — the  downy  bed  and  pillows,  cambric-trimmed,  lace- 
edged,  smooth,  snowy-white,  and  scented,  on  which  lay  help¬ 
lessly  an  aching  head  and  powerless,  crippled  limbs. 

“  Oh,  my  poor  little  Winnie,”  groaned  Stephen  Tredennick, 
“  is  this  all  the  return  she  is  to  receive  at  my  hands1 — stricken 
down  in  her  youth,  with  nothing  but  the  prospect  of  years  of 
suffering — a  long,  lingering  death  before  her?” 

“But,  Stephen,”  his  cousin  said,  gently — she  had  become 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


209 


very  gentle  and  womanly  and  kind  of  late,  this  imperious, 
restless,  unhappy  wife  of  Lord  Mountrevor — “  there  were 
days  only  a  month  ago  when  we  thought  that  she  would  not 
even  have  those  years  of  life,  the  suffering  of  which  I  fer¬ 
vently  trust  time  may  alleviate  in  some  degree,  and  love  and 
care  can  brighten  a  little  also.  Even  now  Doctor  Lake  is  of 
opinion  that  she  will  not  suffer  acute  pain,  'except  at  inter¬ 
vals,  although  he  will  not  say  anything  about  her  recovery  of 
the  use  of  her  limbs.  The  strain  on  her  nervous  system  has 
affected  her  spine,  he  says,  as  well  as  the  rheumatic  fever — ” 

“  Oh,  don’t,  Mildred — I  can’t  bear  to  hear  it!  ” 

He  writhed  with  the  agony  of  sensitive  pain  for  the  suffer¬ 
ings  of  others — beloved,  weak,  helpless  creatures — which 
affects  some  of  the  bravest  masculine  natures  so  strangely,  in 
contradistinction  to  a  woman’s  self-possessed  endurance  under 
the  like  trial. 

“But  I  must  speak  to  you  Stephen,”  Lady  Mildred  recom¬ 
menced  unwillingly,  after  an  interval  of  silence.  “  You 
know  Lord  Mountrevor  has  written  again;  and  although  I 
gave  him  ample  explanations,  he  says  he  cannot  quite  under¬ 
stand  my  prolonged  absence.”  Her  lip  curled,  and  a  cold, 
haughty  smile  hardened  her  face.  “  He  wishes  to  see  the 
child,  too,  I  believe;  indeed  that  is,  1  dare  say,  the  principal 
reason  of  his  requesting  my  return.” 

“  No,  no,  Millie,”  Stephen  Tredennick  said,  earnestly — 
“  don’t  say  that,  my  dear.  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  your 
husband  longs  to  see  your  face  again  for  your  own  dear  sake. 
He  is  not  a  stock  or  a  stone,  Mildred;  and  he  was  passionate- 
ly  in  love  with  you  when  he  married  you.  Give  him  his  due 
— be  just  to  him,  Mildred,  at  least,  and  acknowledge  he  did 
care  for  you  very  deeply,  though  you  did  not  care  for  him.” 

“  Well?  ”  she  questioned,  with  a  flicker  of  a  cold  smile. 

“  Well,”  her  cousin  returned,  gravely,  “is  there  nothing  in 
that  to  make  you  feel  kindly  toward  the  man  who  felt  love 
for  you,  and  must  have  felt  keen  pain  at  your  coldness?” 

“No,  Stephen,”  Lady  Mountrevor  answered,  frigidly, 
“  there  is  not.” 

“  He  is  the  father  of  your  first-born  and  only  child,  Mildred,” 
honest  Stephen  urged,  his  kind  heart  aching  at  the  necessity 
-for  his  pleading;  “  the  child  whom  you  love  as  well  as  he 
ought  to  form  one  bond  at  least  between  you.” 

“I  do  not  love  the  child,”  she  returned,  her  handsome  face 
growing  rigid  in  proud,  cold  obstinacy. 

“  Then,  Mildred,  my  dear  cousin,”  Stephen  Tredennick 

14 


210 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


said,  “  you  show  me  plainly  whose  is  the  fault,  whose  is  the 
sin  in  this  most  miserable  separation  of  a  man  from  the  wife 
and  child  that  he  loves — of  a  woman  from  the  husband  that 
she  vowed  to  cling  to  as  long  as  they  both  should  live— of  the 
poor  little  innocent  child  that  would  love  both  his  parents  if 
he  were  allowe.d,  and  who  is  wors'e  than  orphaned — with  an 
unloving  mother  and  a  father  hundreds  of  miles  away!  ” 

The  simple,  earnest,  severely-kind  words,  spoken  from 
the  depths  of  a  heart  that  she  knew  to  be  true  and  generous, 
and  full  of  brotherly  love  for  her,  touched  Mildred  Mountre- 
vor  to  the  depths  of  her  wayward  soul. 

“  Cousin  Stephen,’5  she  said,  her  hardness  breaking  down, 
“  I  do  not  want  to  be  cold  and  unkind  and  unnatural;  but — , 
oh,  you  do  not  know  all!  ” 

“  I  know  whither  your  wifely  duty  should  lead  you,  my 
poor  dear  cousin,”  he  said  tenderly.  “  You  cannot  shirk  it 
without  wrong  to  yourself  and  the  man  you  have  married.  I 
know  where  your  parental  duty  should  lead  you — towards 
your  poor  little  neglected  boy.  Duty,  Mildred,  duty  in  the 
sight  of  man  and  Heaven — let  happiness  and  pleasure  go 
where  they  will!  ” 

“Stephen,  I’ll  do  my  best — do  my  duty — I  will!  ”  Lady 
Mildred  said  suddenly  and  passionately.  “  You  shall  never 
have  to  reproach  me  so  again!  ” 

“  Reproach  you,  my  dear  Mildred — my  dear  sister,”  he 
returned,  hastily — “you  who  have  been  an  angel  of  goodness 
and  kindness  and  generosity  to  me!  My  dear,  I  only  think 
that,  if  poor  Henry  Mountrevor  received  but  one-half  of  the 
thoughtful  affection  and  attention  you  lavish  on  me,  I  should 
have  the  happiness  of  seeing  you,  my  dear,  a  beloved  wife  in 
a  peaceful,  happy  home.” 

“  Never!  ”  she  exclaimed,  shortly  and  quitted  the  room  as 
she  spoke.  Half  an  hour  after  she  entered  the  room  again. 

“There,”  she  said,  abruptly, — “I  have  written  now.  I  am 
going  to  obey  you — to  do  my  duty — to  be  a  pattern  wife,  a 
model  peeress  amongst  all  the  model  peeresses  of  England!” 

Stephen  Tredennick  could  hardly  restrain  a  smile. 

“You  are  the  same  abrupt,  impulsive,  self-willed  Millie  as 
ever!  ”  he  said,  pleasantly.  “I  am  glad  of  it;  but  Mildred, 
what  shall  I  do — what  will  she  do  without  you?  ” 

“I  don’t  know,”  replied  Mildred,  gloomily.  “I  must  leave 
her  to  the  tender  mercies  of  Miss  Trewhella,  \  suppose,  with 
Madam  visiting  her  once  a  week,  and  telling  her  how  grate- 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING.  211 

ful  she  ought  to  be  for  all  the  gifts  and  blessings  her  kind 
friends  have  showered  upon  her.” 

Stephen  Tredennick’s  brow  grew  dark. 

“  Winnie  knows  us  better  than  to  mind  that,”  he  muttered. 

“  And  you  must  never  come  up  here  then,  you  know,”  Lady 
Mildred  pursued,  getting  into  one  of  her  irritable  and  mali¬ 
cious  moods — “  at  least,  unless  when  you  escort  Madam  up 
from  Roseworthy.  She  is  in  a  terrible  state  of  mind  about 
the  frightful  violation  of  the  proprieties. which  you  constant¬ 
ly  perpetrate  by  your  visits  here.  Even  the  presence  of  her 
ladyship,  Mildred  Mountrevor,  your  worshipful  cousin,  a 
peeress,  and  matron  to  boot,  is  scarcely  sufficient  excuse  for 
your  outraging  the  convenances  by  visiting  that  poor  little  dy¬ 
ing  girl  in  there!” 

Her  ladyship,  Mildred  Mountrevor,  had  talked  herself 
into  a  reckless  passion  by  this  time,  and,  taking  all  that  she 
said  for  terrible  earnest,-  as  simple-minded  men  will  do 
at  the  outpourings  of  a  woman’s  angry  tongue,  poor  Stephen 
Tredennick  sat  pale  and  stunned  beneath  this  new  and  calam¬ 
itous  aspect  of  affairs. 

“Oh,  Mildred,”  he  said,  imploringly,  “  what  am  I  to  do? 
If  I  had  the  right — ” 

He  had  spoken  without  heeding  his  words,  but  the  quick 
start  and  involuntary  glance  of  his  cousin’s  eyes  revealed  a 
meaning  and  a  way  scarcely  suggested  as  yet  by  his  own 
thoughts. 

“  Mildred,  I  will  have  it,”  he  said,  suddenly,  his  whole  face 
brightening  and  flushing  in  the  glow  of  his  resolution. 

“What,  Stephen?”  she  asked,  softly. 

“  The  right,  the  best  right  in  the  world  to  take  care  of  her, 
to  stay  with  her  and  cheer  her,  and  nurse  her,  my  poor  little 
girl!  ”  he  said,  falteringly,  though  his  eyes  shone  with  hope¬ 
ful  light.  “  I  have  a  right — -the  best  right  in  the  world;  and 
I  will  make  it  mine  before  all  the  world,  that^would  shut  me 
out  of  her  presence,  and  keep  me  away  from  her,  my  poor 
little  suffering  Winnie!  ” 

“Oh,  Stephen,  my  dear  Stephen,”  Lady  Mildred  cried, 
compassion  and  admiration  struggling  for  the  mastery  with 
her,  “  it  is  like  you!  But  the  sacrifice — oh,  Stephen,  the  ter¬ 
rible  sacrifice  of  your  life!  ” 

“  Mildred,”  he  said,  in  grave  reproof,  “  what  did  Winnie 
Caerlyon  think  of  her  sacrifice?  Would  you  have  her 
braver,  truer,  more  generous  than  I,  even — even,”  he  repeated 
tenderly,  “  if  I  did  not  love  her,  if  she  were  not — Heaven 


212 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


bless  her  and  pity  her! — the  most  faithful  love  ever  a  man 
had,  my  poor  little  Winnie?  ” 

Mildred,  Lady  Mountrevor,  being  a  person  fiercely  opposed 
to  “  gushing,”  did  not  shed  tears  or  make  any  pitying  outcry 
over  poor  Stephen  Tredennick’s  mournful  love  story,  in  its 
past,  present,  and  future  aspects,  but  she  sat  very  still  for  a 
few  minutes,  then  coughed  violently,  and  said  she  must  have 
dropped  her  handkerchief  somewhere. 

“Then — Stephen — you  are — what  are  you  going  to  do?” 
she  asked,  confusedly,  gazing  at  him  in  the  same  half-pleased, 
half-despairing  way. 

“  There  are  not  many  preliminaries  or  ceremonies  to  ar¬ 
range  for,  Mildred,”  he  answered,  sadly  smiling — “  only  to 
tell  her.  You  will,  dear  cousin?” 

“Yes — yes,”  Lady  Mildred  said,  hurriedly;  “but,  oh, 
Stephen,  you  forget — Madam  Vivian!  ” 

Lady  Mountrevor  confessed  afterwards  that  in  all  her  life¬ 
long  knowledge  of  -  her  cousin  Stephen  she  never  saw  him 
assume  the  real,  hard,  immovably-haughty,  iron-willed  Tre- 
dennick  look  but  once,  and  that  was  in  this  moment  of  his 
reply  to  her  startled  reminder. 

“  I  shall  be  sorry,  Mildred,”  he  said,  “  if  aunt  Vivian 
attempts  any  opposition  in  this  matter— very  sorry  indeed.” 
That  was  all. 

“But  if  aunt  Vivian  saw  that  look,”  Lady  Mildred  re' 
marked  to  herself,  “  I  don’t  think  she  would  attempt  it.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

There  was  a  small  group  assembled  in  the  pleasant  little 
sitting-room  with  its  open  bay-window  facing  the  sea,  and 
the  summer  breeze  was  coming  softly  in,  rustling  the  trailing 
wreaths  of  white  jessamine  dropping  from  tall  vases  of  white 
and  crimson  roses,  and  floating  the  clouds  of  white  muslin  dra¬ 
pery  and  their  pink  silk  linings  and  ribbons,  looking  so  fresh 
and  festive,  as  they  had  been  newly  hung  this  morning, 
when  the  white  vases  of  crimson  roses,  the  exquisite  clusters 
of  pink  and  white  azaleas,  the  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  gor¬ 
geous  crimson,  mauve,  and  silver  pelargoniums  had  been 
added  to  the  adornments  of  this  and  the  adjoining  bed-* 
chamber,  and,  resting  on  brackets,  peeping  out  from  between 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


213 


statuettes,  reflecting  in  mirrors,  glowing  against  the  white 
background  of  satin  paper,  with  its  gold  and  maple  mould¬ 
ings,  had  transformed  the  rooms,  with  their  gay  wealth  of 
beauty,  their  drooping  silken  petals,  their  velvety  green 
leaves,  and  their  heaven  dyed,  tints  into  pleasant  summer 
bowers. 

“It  looks  fit  for  a  bridal !”  Lady  Mildred  said,  with  gen¬ 
uine  womanly  satisfaction  in  her  work. 

Jeanneton,  the  French  nurse,  whom  she  addressed,  clasped 
her  hands  in  a  Frenchwoman’s  raptures. 

“  Ciell  ”  she  cried — “  it  looks  as  if  miladi  were  a  spirit, 
who  had  worked  one  grand  charm  over  this  old  chateau — 
before  so  triste .” 

“What  are  all  the  flowers  for?  Mamma,  what  are  all  the 
flowers  for?  ”  his  small  lordship,  Eustace  Mountrevor,  de¬ 
manded,  in  intense  curiosity. 

He  had  been  allowed  for  these  last  few  days  to  stay  at 
Tregarthen  with  his  mother,  after  certain  strict  warnings  as 
to  his  behaviour;  and  the  unaccustomed  influence  of  her  con¬ 
stant  presence,  as  well  as  that  of  the  mysterious  sick  lady, 
who  spoke  to  him  so  gently,  and  kissed  him  so  softly,  and 
showed  him  pretty  pictures  when  he  was  allowed  to  go  into 
her  room,  had  altogether  had  a  most  tranquillising  effect  on 
the  young  gentleman’s  turbulent  spirit. 

He  had  taken  to  his  “  uncle  Stephen,”  as  he  called  him, 
with  wonderful  affection  also;  but  the  fear  of  being  deprived 
of  a  romp  or  a  walk  with  him,  and  being  consigned  to  Jeanne¬ 
ton  and  the  terrible  black-and-white  crucifix,  of  which  he  was 
so  much  afraid,  and  the  orderly,  silent  household  at  Rose¬ 
worthy,  where  he  was  so  constantly  shut  up  in  his  mother’s 
suite  of  rooms,  would  have  been  sufficient  in  itself  to  make 
him  more  careful  in  the  matter  of  temper  and  obedience. 

Poor  child,  like  many  another  human  nature  grown  hate¬ 
ful,  distorted,  dangerous  to  itself  and  those  who  come  in 
contact  with  it,  his  needed  but  the  removal  of  the  warping 
process,  the  gentle  touch  of  a  guiding  hand,  the  sweet  air  of 
freedom,  a  gleam  of  the  sunshine  of  love,  to  make  it  spring 
up  fair  and  flourishing  and  sound  to  the  core,  ready  to  blos¬ 
som  hereafter,  and  bring  forth  good  fruit,  instead  of  apples 
of'  Sodom,  grown  from  the  soil  of  an  embittered  spirit  and 
an  empoisoned  heart. 

“Hush!”  his  mother  said.  “You  muM  go  away  now, 
Eustace.” 

“Are  you  going  to  have  a  party?”  he  inquired,  wistfully. 


214 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAKCH  MOKNING. 


“  Mightn’t  I  stay  for  the  party,  mamma — stay  with  uncle 
Stephen?  ”* 

“  Uncle  Stephen  doesn’t  want  you  at  the  party,”  Lady  Mil¬ 
dred  said,  a  suppressed  smile  breaking  over  her  face;  “  he  ‘ 
wouldn’t  have  you  here  on  any  account.  Go  away — go  away  ] 
now^,  my  dear,”  she  added,  more  gently;  “there  are  gentlemen 
coming  upstairs.  By-and-by  uncle  Stephen  will  let  you  in,  } 
perhaps.” 

“There’s  nobody  coming  but  uncle  Stephen,  and  the  doc¬ 
tor,  and  a  gentleman  like  a  minister,”  the  precocious  youngster 
persisted. 

“  Oh,  yes,  there  is,”  said  Lady  Mildred,  with  a  slight  laugh 
— ■“  there  is  a  new  aunt  coming.” 

“  A  new  aunt,  mamma!  Isn’t  my  grand-aunt  coming?  Is 
it  my  old  aunt — your  aunt,  ma,  aunt  Yiv’an?  Is  it  aunt 
Viv’an,  mamma?  ” 

“No,”  said  his  mother — “it  is  aunt  Tredennick.” 

It  was  poor,  long-suffering,  loving  Jeanneton  who  had  to  * 
suffer  from  the  ebullition  of  his  young  lordship’s  angry  grief 
at  being  excluded  from  the  party  and  his  “  uncle  Stephen’s”  ? 
society,  “  who  would  have  let  him  in  if  he  had  seen  him — he  g 
knew  uncle  Stephen  would,”  he  cried,  howling  as  loudly  as  , 
he  dared,  in  his  disappointment. 

“Hush,  hush,  mon  cheri!  ”  Jeanneton  soothed.  “It  is  not  | 
a  party — it  is  a  fete,  see  you,  my  little  one — a  fete — une  fete  *2 
de  tristesse ,  vraiment!  There  are  none  of  the  guests,  or  the  ' 
music,  or  the  beautiful  roses.” 

“  There  are,”  said  Lord  Eustace,  doggedly.  “Mamma  had 
on  her  blue  silk,  and  the  beautiful  white  thing  that  she  wore 
at  a  party  one  time.” 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  his  lordship  Eustace  Mountrevor 
was  more  thoroughly  convinced  than  ever — if  that  were  pos¬ 
sible — of  the  correctness  of  his  own  information  and  the  . 
absurdity  of  Jeanneton’s  misrepresentation,  when,  on  cau-  j 
tiously  and  cleverly  eluding  her  vigilance,  he  rushed  up-  i 
stairs,  and,  softly  opening  the  door  of  that  pretty  sitting- 
room  on  the  first  floor,  with  its  rose-coloured  hangings,  crept 
quietly  in. 

His  mother,  Lady  Mildred,  was  w-earing  her  beautiful.; 
party-dress  of  blue  silk,  with  its  cloudy  over-drapery  of  white  ■ 
net  and  Limerick  lace,  with  a  bouquet  of  flowers  in  her  cor¬ 
sage  and  white  gloves.  “  Uncle  Stephen  ”  was  in  an  elegant 
morning  costume,  Doctor  Lake  wore  white  gloves,  so  did 
a;  other  bald-headed  gentleman  with  gilded  anchor  buttons 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MAECH  MOENING. 


215 


and  gold  braid  on  his  coat,  and  the  minister-looking  gentle¬ 
man  had  on  the  very  same  long,  white  gown  he  wore  in 
church.  Even  the  sick  lady  was  raised  up  on  her  pillows, 
and,  wearing  a  large,  soft  jacket  of  pale  rose  satin  and  cash- 
mere,  with  a  spray  of  white  flowers  in  a  gold  clasp,  and  with 
her  pretty  hair,  cut  so  short,  in  bright  little  rings  and  curls, 
and  a  few  long,  silky,  brown  ringlets  straying  on  her  shoul¬ 
ders,  looked  almost  well,  her  eyes  were  so  bright  and  dark, 
and  her  white  face  had  such  beautiful  rosy  cheeks,  and  she 
was  smiling.  Indeed,  they  were  all  smiling,  and  the  room 
was  all  decorated  with  flowers,  and  there  were  heaps  of 
splendid  peaches  and  nectarines  on  a  silver  salver,  and  mac¬ 
aroons  and  jelly,  and  a  champagne  bottle  and  glasses.  Of 
course  it  was  a  party — they  were  having  a  party  with  the 
sick  lady;  but  where  was  the  new  aunt  he  had  heard  was 
coming? 

“Oh,  you  terrible  child,  what  brings  you  here?”  his 
mother  said;  but  she  laughed,  and,  thus  encouraged,  little 
Eustace  crept  farther,  getting  near  kind  “  uncle  Stephen,” 
who  never  found  fault  with  him,  or  sent  him  away.  “  Come, 
Eustace,”  Lady  Mildred  interposed — “  come  with  me,  dear; 
you  cannot  stay  here.” 

“Oh,  let  me  stay,  uncle  Stephen — let  me  stay!  ”  Eustace 
entreated,  getting  behind  “  uncle  Stephen’s  ”  chair,  *and 
crushing  himself  close  into  the  muslin  curtains  of  the  bed 
with  surprising  adroitness.  “I  stay  with  you — with  you  and 
Miss  Tarelyon,”  he  added,  as  a  happily-persuasive  after¬ 
thought;  “  Miss  Tarelyon  will  show  me  pictures — won’t  you, 
Miss  Tarelyon?’” 

“That’s  not  Miss  Caerlyon,  you  little  goose!  ”  his  mother 
interposed,  catching  Arm  hold  of  his  arm.  “  Come,  Eustace, 
like  a  good  boy,  and  you  shall  sit  at  luncheon  with  me.” 

“  Oh,  let  me  stay!  ”  Eustace  whimpered,  piteously,  afraid 
to  make  any  louder  demonstration  of  displeasure  because  of 
his  mother.  “I’ll  stay  with  uncle  Stephen  and  Miss  Tare¬ 
lyon!  ” 

“  This  is  not  Miss  Caerlyon,  my  boy,”  said  “  uncle 
Stephen,”  gently,  taking  one  of  the  sick  lady’s  little  white 
thin  hands,  on  which  glittered  a  bright  thick  gold  ring — 
“she  is  not  Miss' Caerlyon  any  more — she  is  your  uncle 
Stephen’s  wife.  Kiss  her,  my  little  fellow;  she  is  your  aunt 
now.” 

“That  is  your  new  aunt  who  I  told  you  was  coming,  Eu¬ 
stace,”  said  his  mother,  smiling,  as  she  drew  the  bewildered 


216 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


child  away — “  that  is  your  aunt- — Winnie  Tredennick,  my 
dear.” 

And  then  they  all  went  away  out  of  the  beautiful,  luxuri¬ 
ous,  invalid-chamber — the  father,  the  physician,  the  minister, 
Lady  Mildred  and  her  child,  the  assistants  and  witnesses  of 
that  strange  sad  bridal — and  left  Stephen  Tredennick  and 
his  wife  alone  together. 

Alone  together  they  spent  their  lives — the  brave  tender¬ 
hearted  sailor  and  the  frail  gentle  little  woman  who  had 
loved  him  so  faithfully  and  well.  It  was  a  life  so  strange,  so 
pathetic  in  its  sadness  aud  tenderness,  in  the  burden  of  deep 
affliction  laid  on  the  husband  and  his  beloved  suffering  wife, 
and  borne  so  cheerfully,  so  patiently,  by  both  in  their  deep 
mutual  love,  as  to  move  to  pity  and  admiring  friendship  all 
who  ever  knew  the  brave  Captain  of  the  Chittoor  and  his 
heroine-love,  who  had  laid  down  her  youth  and  life  for  him. 
Even  Henry,  Lord  Mountrevor,  condoning  with  some  diffi¬ 
culty  the  mesalliance  of  his  wife’s  cousin,  and  privately  in¬ 
forming  his  intimate  acquaintances  at  the  club  and  elsewhere 
that  he  should  not  wonder  at  anything  Tredennick  of  Tre- 
garthen  did — “  he  was  always  a  deuced  eccentric  fellow” — 
actually  honoured  Tregarthen  House  with  a  visit  of  some 
ten  days  in  the  autumn,  and,  meeting  Lieutenant  Caerlyon 
there  at  dinner,  with  pretty,  vain  Sarah,  his  second  daughter, 
radiant  in  white  tarletane  and  peach  ribbons,  changed  his 
mind  totally,  declared  Caerlyon  to  be  a  decent  fellow,  and 
quite  gentlemanly,  and  Tredennick’s  wife’s  relations  nice 
people  enough;  while,  as  for  the  frail,  little  white-faced 
woman,  lying  on  the  sofa  upstairs,  he  said,  with  a  shiver,  that 
she  was  uncommonly  like  a  little  wax  fi  gure,  that  would  break 
if  one  attempted  to  handle  it,  but  a  mild,  sweet-faced  little 
creature,  and  that  it  was  a  terrible  pity  for  Tredennick — the 
poor  fellow  seemed  so  fond  of  his  little  dying  wife. 

His  wife,  Lady  Mildred,  and  his  son  were  with  him,  and 
that  ten  days’  visit  to  the  home  so  sanctified  by  patient-suffer¬ 
ing  #nd  enduring  devoted  love  taught  the  wordly-hardened 
husband  and  the  cold  wife  a  lesson.  He  grew  more  softened 
and  sincere  with  the  dawning-glimmer  of  a  belief  in  the 
possibility  of  wedded  love  and  womanly  truth  and  constancy; 
and  she,  graver,  gentler  and  more  patient.  Her  husband’s 
sincere  respect  and  liking  for  Stephen,  his  pity  and  admirar 
tion  of  Winnie  Tredennick,  gave  them  a  .common  ground 
of  friendly  feeling  and  converse;  and  their  child,  who,  as 
her  cousin  had  urged,  should  be  a  bond  of  union  between  the 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  217 

father  and  mother,  had  ceased  at  least  to  be  the  unhappy 
cause  of  discord. 

Poor  little  Eustace  was  rather  afraid  of  both  his  parents, 
but,  whilst  he  was  rather  fond  of  his  capriciously  indulgent 
father,  he  had  a  child’s  intense  reverential  admiration  of  his 
beautiful  mother.  He  feared  her  most,  but  he  would  have 
loved  her  best  had  he  been  permitted. 

Madam  Vivian,  from  the  hour  in  which  she  had  learned 
that  her  worst  apprehensions  with  regard  to  her  nephew’s 
intentions  towards  the  woman  who  had  saved  his  life — the 
very  worst,  in  Madam’s  estimation — were  to  be  speedily 
realised,  and  that  her  former  little  pet,  protegee,  -companion, 
aUd  amanuensis,  her  poor  little  tyrannised-over  favourite, 
whom  she  used  to  scold  for  wearing  shabby  dresses,  and 
exhort  against  any  attempts  at  fashion  or  extravagance  in  the 
same  breath  almost,  was  to  be  exalted  to  a  position  which  she 
would  have  awarded  to  the  fairest,  wealthiest,  best-born  of 
the  land — her  nephew’s  wife,  the  mistress  of  the  old  home 
of  the  Tredennicks  of  Tregarthen — from  that  hour  Madam 
Vivian  made  no  sign  or  overture  of  forgiveness,  reconcilia¬ 
tion,  or  friendship.  In  fact,  those  of  her  own  household  and 
her  more  intimate  friends  were  well  aware  that,  if  they  would 
avoid  the  evoking  of  her  haughty  displeasure,  they  must 
mention  not  even  the  names  of  Caerlyon  or  Tredennick  in 
her  hearing. 

“  They  are  all  one  now,”  she  said  once  in  cold  scorn;  “and 
I  do  not  care  to  hear  of  the  Caerlyons  of  Tregarthen.  It  is 
a  new  thing  on  the  earth,  and  suits  neither  my  ideas  nor  my 
inclinations.” 

Eventually  she  quitted  Roseworthy  for  an  indefinite  time, 
allowing  friends  of  her  own  to  become  its  tenants — a  pleasant, 
jovial,  retired  Army  major  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  who, 
for  their  part,  caring  very  little  about  the  story  of  Stephen 
Tredennick’s  mesalliance ,  and  having  a  good  deal  of  kindly 
curiosity  on  the  subject,  were  speedily  on  terms  of  intimacy 
with  the  master  of  Tregarthen  and  its  gentle  little  mistress. 


•218 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII.,  and  Last. 

One  year — two  years — three  years  had  passed  away  since 
the  morning  of  Stephen’s  and  Winifred’s  bridal.  The  Ma¬ 
jor  and  his  wife  and  daughters  had  resigned  their  tenancy  of 
Roseworthy,  having  inherited  a  house  and  landed  property 
of  their  own  in  the  Midland  Counties,  and  the  old  mansion, 
with  its  old  servants,  remained  unoccupied  during  the  sum¬ 
mer  months,  the  domestics  not  knowing  if  they  must  prepare 
to  receive  strange  tenants  again,  or  their  own  old  rightful 
mistress,  when  unexpectedly,  to  their  great  joy,  they  had  no-  ] 
tice  of  her  arrival  from  her  Continental  home,  which  notice 
Madam  Vivian  followed  six  hours  afterwards  in  person,  ac-  : 
companied  still  by  Miss  Trewhella.  Indeed  that  worthy  per¬ 
son’s  discontent  at  foreign  ways  and  foreign  languages,  and, 
worst  of  all,  the  perfidy  of  a  foreign  gentleman  with  whom 
she  had  formed  a  sentimental  friendship,  had  been  a  strong 
motive  in  causing  her  mistress’s  return.  .  .  ; 

“  Trewhella  and  I  are  getting  old,”  Madam  said,  malicious-  J 
ly  indifferent  to  the  sensitive  abigail’s  amour  propre  on  the  j 
subject  of  her  years  and  appearance;  “  her  hair  is  gray  and  _ 
mine  is  white;  we  both  prefer  English  cosy  comfort,  instead  l 
of  cold  Frenchified  elegance,  amidst  which  to  end  our  days.”  ; 

“  Reely,  Madam,  reely,”  Miss  Trewhella  said,  trembling  : 
with  indignation,  “  I  trust — I  reely  trust,  Madam — that  ’evin  j 
will  see  fit  not  to  cut  me  off  in  the  prime  of  life!  ” 

“I  trust  so,  too,”  returned  her  mistress,  with  provoking 
urbanity;  “you  will  doubtless  outlive  me  by  a  good  many^S 
years — for  you  are  twenty  years  younger  than  I  am — but  you  t 
are  growing  an  old  woman  for  all  that,  Trewhella.” 

Perhaps  she  was,  and  perhaps  it  was  the  longing  desire  for  ■ 
English  feather-beds,  and  English  coal-fires,  and  fragrant  . 
black  tea,  and  spicy  gossip  with  old  English  acquaintances  : 
that  had  led  her  to  regard  in  such  bitter  disfavour  Conti: 
nental  abodes  and  fare  and  friends  alike.  Certain  it  is  that  - 
Miss  Trewhella  from  time  to  time  kept  her  mistress  well 
posted  as  to  the  melancholy  state  of  her  mind  and  nerves  and 
health,  proceeding  as  far  as  incipient  symptoms  of  consump-  ! 


ALL  IN  THE 


MAECH  MORNING. 


219 


tion,  with  a  threatening  of  melancholy  madness*  and  a  strong 
suspicion  of  disease  of  the  heart— which  signs  and  symptoms 
all  gradually  but  surely -increased  and  assumed  aggravated 
forms  until  the  day  of  her  starting  on  the  return  journey  to 
England. 

“  She  is  getting  old,  and  her  health  is  breaking,  poor 
thing,”  said  Madam  to  herself,  with  real  compassion;  “we 
both  want  rest  and  peace  in  a  quiet  old  English  home.” 

But  there  was  another  desire  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart — a 
desire,  a  wish,  a  lonely  longing — which  Madam  Vivian  would 
not  even  acknowledge  to  herself  as  one  of  the  disposing 
causes  of  her  return  from  the  villa  in  the  Lower  Pyrenees  to 
the  old  Cornish  mansion  at  Roseworthy.  She  would  not  even 
allow  it  to  herself  now,  on  the  day  of  her  return,  when  she 
sat  in  the  old  handsome  green  drawing-room,  looking  about 
on  the  familiar  furniture  and  drapery  and  ornaments,  so  care¬ 
fully  preserved  by  her  faithful  old  servants,  and  looking  out, 
with  eyes  that  grew  so  dim  with  the  ready  emotion  of  age, 
on  the  distant  Head  of  Tregarthen  and  the  memories  it  con¬ 
jured  up. 

Trewhella,  hastening  in  and  out  of  the  room  on  the  busi¬ 
ness  of  consulting  and  unpacking  and  arranging,  and  in  the 
highest  spirits,  with  marvellously  few  traces  of  consumption, 
melancholia,  and  heart-dise'ase  remaining,  overflowed  with 
pieces  of  information  and  scraps  of  news,  which  she  kept  im¬ 
parting  to  her  mistress  whether  she  heeded  or  not. 

“  And,  Madam,”  she  began,  as  she  busily  arranged  a  book- 
tray  and  reading-desk  which  she  had  just  unwrapped  from 
paper,  “  they  do  say — cook,  at  least,  as  knows  her  so  long — 
that  Mrs.  Stephen  Tredennick  has  grown  nearly  well,  and  she 

- ”  but  instantly  she  was  stopped  by  the  quick  turn  of  her 

mistress’s  head  and  her  haughty  warning  glance. 

“  I  declare,  Mrs.  Grose,”  the  waiting-woman  said,  after¬ 
wards,  in  confidential  discourse,  “  Madam  haven’t  altered  her 
mind  a  bit!  ” 

She  had  not  altered  her  mind,  Madam  told  herself,  with 
cold  sternness;  she  had  not  altered  her  mind  respecting  the 
impropriety,  the  absurdity,  the  utter  madness  and  sacrifice  of 
the  unhappy  marriage  which  poor,  foolish,  soft-hearted,  gen¬ 
erous  Stephen  had  made,  or  the  selfishness  and  ambition 
which  had  prompted  Winnie  Caerlyon  to  accept  him.  Well, 
she  pitied  him — her  poor  boy  Stephen.  It  was  a  generous, 
noble  thing  of  him  to  do — quixotic,  absurd  in  the  extreme,  of 
course,  but  generous,  self-sacrificing,  brave.  Poor  Stephen! 


220 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 


To  condemn  himself — for  long  years,  perhaps — to  be  the 
owner  and  guardian  of  a  poor,  little  crippled  creature!  Poor 
Winnie! 

In  spite  of  her  worldly  heart,  many  a  time  during  those 
three  years  her  better  nature  had  uttered,  with  softened, 
pitying  feeling,  “  Poor  Stephen!  poor  Winnie!  ” 

She  had  not  altered  her  mind  now,  she  strenuously  de¬ 
clared;  only — well,  she  must  see  her  poor  nephew  and  be 
reconciled  to  him  before  she  died — reconciled  to  Winnie 
also;  what  was  done  could  not  be  undone — she  would  be  recon¬ 
ciled  to  Stephen  and  to  Stephen’s  poor,  little,  afflicted  wife. 
Death-bed  reconciliations  were  but  cowardly  things,  like 
death-bed  charities  after  a  selfish  life,  Madam  Vivian  wisely 
said;  she  would  be  reconciled  now,  ere  she  lay  down  to  die. 

She  would  be  reconciled.  And  on  this  very  day  of  her 
return,  in  the  soft,  warm,  shadowy  summer  afternoon,  Madam 
Vivian,  strong  of  will  and  purpose  yet,  for  all  her  seventy 
years,  put  on  her  travelling  attire,  which  she  had  scarcely 
laid  off,  took  her  slender,  silver-headed  walking  stick  in  her 
hand,  and  then  quietly  set  out  to  walk  to  her  nephew’s 
house  at  Tregarthen. 

Poor  Stephen’s  sorrowful,  desolate  home — her  poor,  gen¬ 
erous,  self-sacrificed  boy!  What  did  Trewliella  mean  by  her 
ridiculous  gossiping  news  about  his  wife’s  being  nearly  well? 
Those  kind  of  people  were  so  apt  to  exaggerate  everything. 
The  poor,  dying,  crippled  creature  was  perhaps  able  to  go 
about  in  a  Bath-chair,  or  be  carried  into  an  easy-cushioned 
barouche,  or  something  of  that  kind. 

“Poor  Winnie!  She  used  to  be  such  an  active,  nimble 
little  creature.  Poor  Stephen,  to  what  a  life  he  has  doomed 
himself!  ”  Madam  thought  again,  as  she  came  in  sight  of 
the  quiet  old  gray-stone-pointed  house  lying  amongst  the 
trees  and  evergreen  shrubberies  of  Tregarthen,  with  the  blue 
smoke  rising  softly  on  the  quiet  evening  air,  not  even  a  ray 
of  sunlight  to  brighten  up  the  rows  of  windows,  not  a  sound 
to  be  heard  on  the  smoothly-mown  lawn  or  the  neatly-raked 
carriage  drive,  not  a  figure  of  a  human  being  visible  about 
the  orderly  precincts  of  the  calm,  quiet  decorous-looking  old 
mansion. 

“  It  must  be  nothing  less  than  a  prison  to  him  after  his 
free,  wandering  life — my  poor  Stephen!”  Madam  almost 
groaned.  “Ilis  days  have  to  be  spent  in  an  invalid’s  room, 
or  in  one  of  those  silent  dowmstairs  rooms,  reading  the  news¬ 
paper.” 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING.  221 

One  of  the  silent  downstairs  rooms  had  its  long  French 
windows  standing  open.  It  did  not  look  particularly  gloomy 
or  dreary  either,  with  its  vases  of  flowers,  4ts  gay  litter  of 
tiny  chairs  and  footstools  and  tables,  its  open  books,  writing- 
cases,  and  open  piano,  with  loose  sheets  of  music  fluttering 
here  and  there  in  the  evening  breeze,  all  which  Madam 
caught  sight  of  as  she  passed  on. 

She  had  espied  the  open  door  of  the  high  walled  fruit-gar¬ 
den  lying  to  the  south  of  the  house,  and  bent  her  steps 
thither. 

“  lie  is  in  the  garden,  perhaps,”  she  thought,  with  kindly 
pity.  “  He  was  always  fond  of  wandering  about  in  a  garden, 
plucking  flowers  and  fruit,  poor  fellow!  ” 

Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  in  the  garden,  for 
Madam  caught  the  sound  of  advancing  steps  and  her 
nephew’s  voice — not  a  very  subdued  or  sorrowful-toned  voice 
either — indeed,  he  was  laughing  gaily  with  some  one. 

“ You’re  a  nice  young  lady!”  she  heard  Captain  Stephen 
say,  hilariously.  “  Do  you  pretend  to  have  a  conscience?  I 
should  be  glad  to  know.  How  many  more  ripe  gooseberries 
-am  I  to  gather  for  you,  scratching  my  poor  hands?  They 
are  so  exquisitely  white  it  is  a  pity  certainly.  No,  you 
sha’n’t!  No,  you  sha’n’t!  I  have  no  intention  of  spoiling 
you  as  your  mother  is  doing,  mademoiselle.” 

“Visitors!”  Madam  thought,  in  vexed  disappointment. 
“What  shall  I  do?  It  was  silly  of  me  to  come  here  unex¬ 
pectedly;  but  I  never  imagined  that  he  would  have  visitors.” 

•  But  a  retreat  being  impossible,  Madam  stood  her  ground 
quietly,  gazing  in  surprise  and  confused  uncertainty  at  the 
group  that  emerged  from  the  rose-covered  archway  of  the 
garden-door,  with  the  long  vista  beyond  of  strawberry  beds, 
gooseberry  bushes  bending  beneath  their  weight  of  purplish- 
red,  translucent  green,  and  downy  amber  fruit,  wall-fruit 
ripening  in  the  sheltered  summer  air,  open  cucumber  frames, 
trailing  vines,  and  the  distant  green-house,  with  its  roof 
festooned  by  drooping  stems  clustered  with  white  grapes. 

Was  that  Stephen — her  nephew,  Stephen!  That  great, 
broad  chested,  ruddy-cheeked,  jolly-looking  country  gentle¬ 
man  in  a  straw  hat  and  gray  morning-coat,  with  a  dainty 
little  bouquet  of  moss-rosebuds  in  the  top  buttonhole?  And 
carrying  a  baby? 

Nothing  less.  A  great,  fat,  handsome,  lively  baby  of  some 
eight  or  nine  months  old,  who  held  an  enormous  amber 


222  ALL  in  the  wild  maech  moening. 

gooseberry  squeezed  in  one  little  pink,  fat,  dimpled  hand, 
and  with  the  other  retained  a  firm  and  unceremonious  clutch 
of  Captain  Tredennick’s  necktie! 

And  by  his  side,  leaning  on  his  other  arm,  walked  a  lady — 
a  pale,  fair  delicate  looking  little  woman,  dressed  in  a  simple 
graceful  dress  of  pearly  gray,  with  rich  claret  velvet  ribbons 
in  her  hair  and  around  her  throat;  these  with  a  thick  silk 
sash  of  the  same  hue  knotted  at  her  waist  and  hanging  its 
heavy  rich  fringes  down  far  over  her  dress,  brought  out  the 
delicacy  of  its  clear  pale  hue  and  the  fragile  purity  of  her 
own  complexion  in  a  manner  that  caught  Madam  Vivian’s 
artistic  eye  and  charmed  it  on  the  instant. 

That  pale  little  woman  walking  rather  'feebly  by  his  side, 
the  fat,  handsome,  troublesome  baby,  and  the  jolly-looking 
country  gentleman — who  were  they?  Utter  blank  amaze¬ 
ment  rooted  Madam  Vivian  to  the  ground. 

“Aunt  Vivian!  My  dear  aunt — my  dear  aunt!  ”  Stephen 
Tredennick  cried,  rushing  forward,  holding  the  baby  tightly 
yet,  even  while  he  embraced  and  kissed  the  old  lady; 
whereby  the  young  person  in,  the  white  embroidered  frock 
was  brought  into  remarkable  contiguity  to  Madam  Vivian’s 
bonnet. 

“  Aunt,  dear,”  he  said  in  the  next  breath,  holding  aunt  and 
baby  squeezed  in  one  arm,  and  allowing  Madam  not  an  in¬ 
stant’s  opportunity  for  the  tender,  severely-reproachful,  gra¬ 
cious,  forgiving  little  speech  she  had  been  preparing  all  the 
way  from  Roseworthy — never  even  seeming  to  recollect  the 
necessity  for  it  in  his  flush  of  pleasure  and  gratification— =- 
“  Aunt,  dear — look  here!  ”  and  he  put  his  other  arm  around 
the  little  woman  in  the  pearly-gray  poplin  dress.  “  Aunt, 
look  at  my  Winnie!  As  well  as  ever  nearly,  thank  Heaven! 
She  can  walk  about  the  grounds  as  well  as  I  can  now!  Isn’t 
it  wonderful?  ” 

Winnie  Tredennick  remembered  the  need  for  the  forgiving 
speech  if  her  husband  did  not.  The  old  shy  colour  flooded 
her  face,  and  her  lips  trembled  as  Madam  remembered  to 
have  seen  years  ago  when  giving  her  one  of  her  lengthy  re¬ 
bukes. 

“  Dear  Madam,”  she  faltered,  timidly  putting  out  her  hand, 
“I  am  glad — so  glad  to  see  you  again.” 

“  And  I,”  said  Madam,  gracefully  meeting  the  greeting 
hand  more  than  half  way,  “  am  glad  to  see  that  you,  my  dear, 
have  been  so  mercifully  restored.” 


223 


ALL  IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MOBNiNG. 

Madam  meant  that  Winnie  should  have  the  benefit  of  that 
neat  little  reproachfully-kind  speech,  and  was  proceeding  to 
say  that  “  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  you  have  recovered 
your  health,  Mrs.  Tredennick,  is  gratifying  enough  to  cause 
me  to  feel  less  keenly  the  memory  of  the  past,”  when,  fortu¬ 
nately,  or  unfortunately,  the  floating  white  ostrich  feather, 
curling  gracefully  on  the  top  of  Madam  Vivian’s  black-lace 
bonnet,  caught  the  quick,  bright  violet-gray  eyes  of  the  young 
person  in  the  embroidered  frock,  and  in  an  instant  both  the 
satiny  dimpled  hands,  dropping  the  crushed  ripe  gooseberry, 
clutched  at  the  white  feather  in  rampant  glee. 

The  baby  screaming  with  delight,  there  was  an  end  put 
from  that  time,  henceforth,  and  for  ever,  to  Madam’s  studied 
sentences  and  the  grave,  rebuking,  recon ciliatory  speech. 

“Oh  dear  me  —  the  child!”  Madam  exclaimed,  invol¬ 
untarily. 

“  My  daughter,  aunt,”  said  Stephen  Tredennick,  putting 
the  fat,  handsome,  troublesome  baby  right  into  the  old  lady’s 
arms.  “Isn’t  she  a  beauty — a  regular  young  Tredennick? 
Hasn’t  she  got  the  Tredennick  eyes,  aunt,  and  the  Treden¬ 
nick  nose?  She’s  an  imperious  young  dame!  And  my  word! 
hasn’t  she  got  the  Tredennick  temper?  She  has  got  Winnie’s 
mouth,  though,”  he  added,  more  softly — “a  gentle,  persuasive 
little  mouth — and  Winnie’s  hair!  See  what  thick,  curly 
brown  hair  she  has,  and  she  is  not  nine  months  old!  ” 

“  Only  eight  months  and  three  weeks,  dear,”  put  in  the 
mother’s  “  gentle,  persuasive  .little  mouth,”  with  accurate 
maternal  knowledge.  “Dear  Madam,  isn’t  she  very  like 
Stephen?  ” 

“Very,”  said  Madam,  holding  the  troublesome  baby  in  a 
closer  clasp. 

A  kind  of  thrill  ran  through  her — a  momentary  feeling  of 
displeasure  and  resistance  at  the  sound  of  the  wifely  familiar 
words  which  seemed  to  draw  Stephen  and  Stephen’s  child  so 
tenderly  close  to  her  who  had  been  Winnie  Caerlyon  as  to 
shut  out  her  who  was  but  Madam  Vivian,  his  aunt,  into  the 
outer  circle  of  mere  relationship. 

It  was  but  momentary.  In  the  tender  light  of  Winnie 
Tredennick’s  wistful  loving  eyes,  in  the  radiance  of  Stephen 
Tredennick’s  wedded  happiness,  in  the  touch  of  the  baby- 
arms  of  the  little  one  on  her  bosom,  who  seemed  like  a  son’s 
child,  a  grandchild  to  the  lonely  old  white-haired  woman,  the 
last  remnant  of  coldness,  jealousy,  and  unworthy  pride  faded 
quietly  out  of  her  heart. 


C- 

224  ALL-IN  THE  WILD  MARCH  MORNING. 

•  - 

“We  called  her  after  you,  Madam,”  Winnie  added,  softly. 
The  old  lady  looked  earnestly  and  inquisitively  at  her  for  a 
moment,  and  then  she  gave  her  the  reconciled  kiss  she  had 
meant  to  delay  for  so  much  longer. 

“  Did  you,  my  dear?  ”  she  said,  putting  the  bahy  into  her 
arms.  “  There,  Helen  Tredennick,  you  shall  make  peace  be¬ 
tween  your  mother  and  your  grand-aunt  forever!  ” 

THE  END. 


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